HE  ROAKED  —  AND  SCOLDED  —  AND  SNAPPED  —AND  SNARLED 

(page  252) 


SISTER  SUE 


BY 
ELEANOR  H.  PORTER 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(Efce  Rtoetjji&e  J&re&f  Cam6ri&a« 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,   1920,   BY   THE    BUTTERICK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,    1931,   BY   HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS    RESERVED 


To  the  innumerable 

SISTER  SUES 

All  over  the  world  —  who,  patient  and  uncom- 
plaining, have  lived  their  "  barren  "  lives  with 

the  "  life  worth  while  "  ever  beckoning  them 

• 

from  afar,  and  especially 

to  certain  very  dear  "Sister  Sues  " 

personally  known  to  me  but  whose  modesty 

forbids  my  mentioning  them  here  by  name 

THIS  BOOK  IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


2137728   ' 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  PETTY  DETAILS  1 

II.  ALL  FOR  LOVE  15 

III.  COUSIN  ABBY  27 

IV.  "LAST  THINGS"  49 

V.    GlLMOREVILLE  65 

VI.  DAYS  OF  ADJUSTMENT  78 

VII.  WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER  ?  89 

VIII.  VISITORS  AND  CONSEQUENCES  106 

IX.  FOUNDATIONS  122 

X.  OLD  HOME  WEEK  129 

XI.  DONALD  KENDALL  149 

XII.  GREETINGS  AND  ENCORES  165 

XIII.  DEPARTING  GUESTS  177 

XIV.  A  "BEST  SELLER"  AND  A  POSTPONED 

MARRIAGE  201 

XV.  REVELATIONS  209 

XVI.  SOME  READJUSTMENTS  224 

XVII.  OXE  WEEK  IN  JUNE  235 

XVIII.  THE  LURE  OF  A  GOLDEN  CURL  240 

XIX.  A  BROKEN  ARM  247 

XX.  MISTS,  SUNSHINE,  AND  CLOUDS  256 

XXI.  THE  REVOLT  272 

XXII.  THE  LIFE  WORTH  WHILE  281 

XXIII.  THE  OPPORTUNITY  293 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

HE  ROARED  —  AND  SCOLDED  —  AND  SNAPPED  —  AND 

SNARLED  Frontispiece 

"I'LL  BE  LUCKY  IF  —  IF  I  HAVE  A  WHITE  MUSLIN  TO 

GET  MARRIED  IN"  36 

THEY  HAD  A  VERY  BEAUTIFUL  WALK  110 

THE  GIRLS  TOLD  HER  THEY  ENJOYED  THE  DANCE,  AND 
CANDY,  AND  EVERYTHING  198 


SISTER  SUE 

•   • 
• 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  PETTY  DETAILS 

"AsK  your  sister  Sue.  She'll  know." 

Sister  Sue  herself,  hurrying  through  the  hall,  heard 
her  father's  voice  in  the  library.  He  was  speaking,  she 
suspected,  to  her  sister  May;  though  it  might  be,  of 
course,  to  her  brother  Gordon.  In  either  case  it  would 
be  the  same  —  some  petty  detail  of  daily  living  that 
was  to  be  referred  to  her;  and  Sister  Sue  did  not  want 
some  petty  detail  of  daily  living  referred  to  her  — 
just  now. 

She  was  tired  and  sick  of  petty  details  of  daily 
living.  They  were  so  petty,  so  small,  so  insignificant, 
so  trivial!  As  if  there  were  no  one  else  in  the  house 
who  could  tell  whether  or  not  May  should  wear  her 
rubbers,  or  where  Gordon's  baseball  bat  was!  But 
there  did  not  seem  to  be.  "Ask  your  sister  Sue."  If 
she  heard  it  once,  she  heard  it  a  dozen  times  a  day  — 
or,  rather,  she  might  have  heard  it,  if  she  had  chanced 
to  be  near,  as  she  was  to-day. 

With  a  quick  look  over  her  shoulder  toward  the 
library  door,  and  a  hastening  of  her  step  up  the  thickly 
padded  stairway,  she  sped  along  the  upper  hall  to  an 
open  door  halfway  down  the  wide  passageway.  She 


2  SISTER  SUE 

paused,  but  only  for  an  instant.  The  next  moment 
she  had  darted  across  the  hall,  opened  another  door, 
and  shut  it  quickly  behind  her. 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  her  back  hard-pressed 
against  the  door. 

For  a  minute  —  for  one  little  minute  —  she  was 
free.  She  would  be  free !  And  she  was  going  to  be  free, 
too!  As  if  all  her  life,  all  her  glorious  life,  she  was  to 
be  tied  to  her  sister's  rubbers  and  her  brother's  base- 
ball bat!  Indeed,  no!  Had  not  that  very  day  Signer 
Bartoni  said  —  ? 

With  an  ecstatic  little  indrawn  breath  she  drew  her 
hands  together  across  her  breast  in  a  rapturous  self- 
embrace.  Once  again  in  her  ears  rang  the  music- 
master's  enthusiastic  commendation  and  the  gener- 
ous applause  of  her  classmate  audience.  Once  again 
before  her  eyes  rose  the  vision  of  countless  other 
audiences-to-be,  with  herself  bowing  her  thanks  to 
their  clamorous  demands  of  "Encore!  Encore!" 
Once  again  through  her  whole  self  tingled  the  ecstasy 
of  interpreting  to  a  listening  multitude  the  master 
thoughts  of  a  master  mind  until  the  ivory  keys  under 
her  fingers  seemed  living  voices  to  speak  her  message 
as  she  willed. 

And  she  could  do  it.  She  knew  she  could  do  it.  Had 
not  Signer  Bartoni  said  that  never  before  had  a  pupil 
of  his  played  that  concerto  with  such  beauty  of  tone 
and  perfection  of  execution,  such  fire,  yet  with  such 
poise  and  precision,  as  she  had  played  it  that  after- 
noon? Had  he  not  told  her,  after  the  concert  was  over, 
that  it  would  be  a  "pi-tee"  and  a  "cr-rime"  not  to 


THE  PETTY  DETAILS  3 

give  to  the  world  the  benefit  of  her  great  talent?  She 
must  become  the  great  "artiste." 

"The  great  artiste!"  With  another  little  thrill  of 
ecstasy  she  hugged  the  name  to  herself. 

"Sue!  Sister  Sue!"  It  was  May's  voice  calling  up 
the  stairway. 

With  a  quiver  that  was  not  a  thrill  of  ecstasy  the 
girl  behind  the  closed  door  stiffened,  her  chin  up,  her 
breath  suspended. 

"Sue!  Sue!  Where  are  you?"  The  voice  was  nearer 
now,  and  carried  a  note  of  impatience.  Behind  the 
door  Sister  Sue's  chin  lifted  with  her  breath  the  frac- 
tion of  an  inch.  "Sue  —  Sue!"  How  tired  she  was  of 
that  eternal  "Sue  —  Sue!"  It  would  be  Susanna  on 
the  programmes  —  Susanna  Gilmore. 

She  was  giving  herself  another  little  ecstatic  hug 
when  from  the  hall  just  the  other  side  of  the  door 
came  May's  voice  again. 

"Sue!  Sue!  Why,  where  are  you?"  Then,  half 
under  her  breath,  in  the  voice  of  a  hurt,  disappointed 
child:  "Why,  I  thought  I  saw  you  come  in!" 

Out  in  the  hall  the  footsteps  had  plainly  come  to  a 
pause  at  the  open  door  opposite  which  led  to  Sister 
Sue's  bedroom.  The  voice  called  again  "  Sue  —  Sue ! " 

Across  the  face  of  the  girl  behind  the  door  swept  a 
look  of  worried  distress. 

"Sue  —  Sue!  Sister  Sue!"  The  steps  were  hurry- 
ing down  the  hall  now  toward  the  stairway  that  led 
to  the  third  floor.  "Are  you  up  there?" 

Sister  Sue  turned,  her  hand  outstretched  toward 
the  doorknob.  Then,  irresolutely,  she  drew  it  back. 


4  SISTER  SUE 

Outside,  the  steps  came  hurrying  by  the  door  again, 
and  on  down  the  stairway  to  the  floor  below.  From 
there,  faintly,  came  the  insistent  voice  again,  ques- 
tioning a  maid  in  the  hallway,  calling  to  Gordon  in 
the  den,  complaining  to  the  master  of  the  house  in  the 
library  that  Sister  Sue  was  n't  anywhere  —  not  any- 
where —  yet  she  surely  came  in  not  ten  minutes  ago. 
And  now  where  was  she? 

Where  was  she,  indeed !  Up  in  the  blue-room  guest- 
chamber,  pacing  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth, 
now  stopping  with  her  breath  suspended  to  listen  to 
the  questioning  voice  downstairs,  now  resuming  her 
march  with  a  gesture  of  joyous  abandonment  to  the 
inner  voices  of  "Encore!  Encore!  Susanna  Gilmore! 
Encore!  Encore!" 

But  it  was  not  for  long.  Anybody  who  knew  Sister 
Sue  would  know  that  it  would  not  be  for  long.  With 
a  little  shrug  and  a  resigned  upflinging  of  her  two 
hands,  Sister  Sue  softly  opened  the  door,  slipped  out 
into  the  hall,  and  walked  toward  the  stairway. 

After  all,  it  did  n't  matter,  it  did  n't  really  matter. 
It  was  n't  as  if  she  were  n't  going  to  be  free! 

In  the  lower  hall  the  two  sisters  came  face  to  face. 

"Why,  Sue,  where  have  you  been?  I've  looked 
everywhere  for  you!" 

Sister  Sue  laughed  lightly. 

"Not  everywhere  —  because  you  didn't  look 
where  I  was." 

"But  where  were  you?" 

'  In  the  land  of  nowhere,  anywhere  —  in  the  land  of 
maybe,"  chuckled  Sister  Sue.   Then,  with  a  sudden 


THE  PETTY  DETAILS  5 

stiffening  of  her  whole  slender  self,  she  amended: 
"No,  not  may-be.  In  the  land  of  will-bel  I  was  lost 
in  the  land  of  will-be,  my  dear  sister.  Ever  been 
there?" 

"Sue,  of  course  not!  Nor  you,  either.  What  do 
you  mean?  What  a  case  you  are,  Sue  Gilmore,  when 
you  get  started!  But,  listen.  I  wanted  you.  Beth 
Henderson  wants  me  to  motor  over  to  the  Club  for 
dinner.  Phil  Chandler  and  Bert  Hammond  are  going. 
Oh,  Mrs.  Henderson  is  going,  too,  of  course,"  she 
added  hastily,  in  response  to  the  dawning  refusal  on 
her  sister's  face. 

"But,  May,  dear,  you  know  I  don't  like  —  "  began 
Sister  Sue  doubtfully,  only  to  break  off  with:  "What 
does  your  father  say?" 

"Says  to  ask  you,  of  course.  He  always  says  that, 
you  know  he  does.  And,  Sue,  you  will  let  me  go, 
won't  you?" 

"But,  May,  you  know  I  don't  like  to  have  you  with 
Bert—" 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  be  with  him.  I'm  going  to 
be  with  Beth  and  her  mother.  And  it'll  just  spoil 
everything  if  I  can't  go.  They  said  it  would  —  Beth 
and  Mrs.  Henderson.  Sue,  please!" 

Still  Sue  hesitated. 

"Of  course,  if  Mrs.  Henderson  is  going,"  she  began 
frowningly. 

The  other  did  not  wait  for  her  to  finish.  With  a 
bearlike  hug  and  a  rapturous  kiss  she  effectually 
snapped  the  sentence  off  short. 

"Oh,  Sue,  you're  a  duck!  I  knew  you  would!  I'll 


6  SISTER  SUE 

go  tell  them  right  away  that  I  can."  And  with  a 
whirl  of  silken  skirts  she  was  off  to  the  telephone. 

Behind  her,  Sister  Sue  still  frowned. 

"Yes,  she  knew  I  would.  That's  exactly  it  —  she 
knew  I  would,"  sighed  Sister  Sue  to  herself.  "I al- 
ways do." 

"Oh,  Sis,  are  you  there?"  It  was  Gordon  calling 
from  the  little  den  at  the  right  of  the  stairway. 

"Yes,  I'm  here.  Well,  Gordon,  what  can  I  do  for 
you?"  Was  there  an  ironic  sweetness  in  the  voice 
as  the  questioner  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  den? 
Perhaps.  Yet  if  there  was,  it  apparently  passed  quite 
over  the  blond  head  of  the  good-looking  youth  lolling 
back  in  the  morris  chair.  He  blew  a  smoke-ring  before 
he  answered. 

"Lots.  Sis,  you  're  a  peach ! " 

"Of  course!  Well,  what  is  it?" 

He  twisted  in  his  chair,  and  threw  a  quick  glance 
into  her  face.  Even  Gordon  could  not  fail  to  notice 
the  ironic  sweetness  this  time. 

"Now,  Sis,  you've  no  need  to  speak  nor  look  like 
that.  I  guess  I  feel  as  bad  as  you  do." 

"But  what  is  it?  And  —  Gordon  —  that  ciga- 
rette!" 

He  stirred  again  restlessly. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But,  it's  the  first  to-day  —  honest! 
And  I  had  to  have  something.  You  see  —  I  —  I  'm 
up  against  it  again.  That's  all." 

"Oh,  Gordon,  not  that!  Not  so  soon  —  over  your 
allowance,"  cried  the  girl,  dropping  herself  helplessly 
into  the  chair  nearest  the  door. 


THE  PETTY  DETAILS  7 

"But,  Sue,  you  know  how  mean  and  small  it 
is?" 

"To  go  in  debt  —  yes,"  interpolated  the  girl. 

The  youth's  chin  came  up  with  a  dignity  as  haughty 
as  the  recumbency  of  his  position  would  allow. 

"I  was  referring  to  the  allowance,"  he  vouchsafed 
coldly. 

Unexpectedly  Sister  Sue  laughed. 

"Oh,  Gordon,  Gordon,  what  a  boy  you  are!  I  can't 
stay  vexed  with  you,  and  you  know  it.  But  really, 
dear,  it  is  serious.  I  know  it  is  n't  large,  but  it's  quite 
large  enough  for  a  boy  of  sixteen.  Now  how  much  — 
do  you  owe?" 

The  youth  drew  a  long  breath  and  came  energeti- 
cally erect. 

"There,  that's  the  stuff!  Now  we  can  get  some- 
where. Well,  I  owe  Ted  a  couple  of  dollars,  and  Harry 
Prescott  five,  and  Bert  Hammond  — ' 

"Hammond!  Gordon,  you  don't  owe  him!1' 

"Not  much.   Only  four  or  five  dollars,  and  — " 

"Four  or  five  dollars!"  groaned  the  girl;  then, 
sharply,  she  began  to  speak  with  stern  decision. 

"  Gordon,  this  thing  has  got  to  stop !  I  will  not  have 
you  owing  money  to  those  boys." 

"There,  that's  the  stuff!  That's  it  exactly,"  cried 
the  boy  triumphantly.  "I  knew  you  would  n't  want 
me  to  owe  them  like  this.  That's  why  I  told  you.  I 
knew  you  'd  help  me  pay  them  back  —  go  to  Dad,  you 
know,  and  explain.  Dad  '11  do  anything  for  you.  You 
know  he  will." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly. 


8  SISTER  SUE 

"Gordon,  this  is  not  going  to  do.  You've  got  to  go 
to  Father  yourself  this  time." 

The  young  fellow  paled  visibly. 

"Sister  Sue,  you  never  would!  You  wouldn't! 
You  would  n't  desert  a  fellow  like  this !  You  know 
what  I'd  get." 

"I  know  what  you  would  n't  get.  You  would  n't 
get  the  money." 

"That's  just  it  —  that's  just  it!"  he  cried  fever- 
ishly. "And  if  I  can't  get  the  money  I  can't  pay  back 
the  boys;  and  then  I  '11  still  be  owing  them.  Don't  you 
see?  Bert  Hammond  and  the  rest." 

A  swift  spasm  of  abhorrence  crossed  her  face. 
Very  plainly  she  did  "see." 

"And  so  I  know  you'll  do  it,  Sister  Sue,"  he  urged, 
following  up  his  advantage.  "I  know  you'll  do  it!" 

There  was  no  answer.  Motionless  she  sat,  looking 
fixedly  straight  ahead  at  nothing.  After  a  long  min- 
ute she  sighed  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Oh,  yes,  she'll  do  it.  Sister  Sue  will  do  it,"  she 
said  a  bit  grimly.  At  the  door  she  turned. 

"Gordon,  you  must  understand.  I'll  do  it  this 
time,  but  not  again  —  not  again." 

"There  ain't  a-goin'  ter  be  no  'again,'"  retorted 
Gordon,  with  all  his  old  debonair  confidence.  "Say, 
Sister  Sue,  you  are  a  brick!" 

But  Sister  Sue  was  already  halfway  down  the  hall. 

At  the  library  door  she  paused.  Almost  always 
she  paused  at  that  library  door.  There  was  something 
about  the  fine  old  room  with  its  paneled  walls,  beamed 
ceiling,  and  crimson  draperies  that  brought  a  little 


THE  PETTY  DETAILS  9 

catch  to  Sue's  breath  —  it  was  so  beautiful,  so  alto- 
gether satisfying.  Nowhere  in  the  house  was  there  a 
room  she  loved  half  so  well. 

But  it  was  not  the  enchantment  of  soft  lights  and 
blended  colors  that  brought  her  feet  to  a  pause  to-day 
—  though  even  her  worried  distress  over  her  present 
mission  did  not  blind  her  eyes  to  the  charm  of  a  bit 
of  tooling  that  flashed  gold  in  the  slant  rays  of  the 
sun  across  the  room.  It  was  the  perturbed  conscious- 
ness that  she  was  coming  all  unprepared  to  the  task 
before  her,  and  that  her  own  strong  disapproval 
of  young  Gordon's  conduct  was  a  poor  foundation 
upon  which  to  erect  a  plea  for  mercy  that  would  be  in 
the  least  convincing. 

Across  the  room  her  father  sat  in  his  favorite  chair 
reading.  She  knew  exactly  just  how  resignedly  he 
would  lay  aside  his  book,  just  how  impatiently  he 
would  pull  at  his  little  pointed  beard,  just  how  nerv- 
ously he  would  tap  the  toe  of  his  expensively  shod 
foot,  while  she  was  telling  him  her  story;  and  just  how 
irritably  he  would  demand,  when  she  had  finished: 

"Well  —  well  —  well!  —  what  can  /  do?  Why  do 
you  come  to  me?  Can't  you  tell  him  that  he  must 
take  the  consequences  of  his  own  act?" 

She  knew  it  all.  However,  it  must  be  done,  of 
course.  And  with  a  sigh  she  entered  the  room. 

"Father,  I—" 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  the  man  sitting  by  the 
window  turned  with  a  quick  exclamation. 

"There !  So  you  're  here  at  last,  Sue.  They  Ve  been 
looking  for  you  —  both  of  them.  Katy  wanted  you, 


10  SISTER  SUE 

too.  And,  by  the  way,  I  wanted  you  myself.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  to  speak  to  Katy.  My  toast  again 
this  morning  —  it  was  burned.  And  my  steak  — 
can't  you  make  her  stop  sending  it  to  the  table  dried 
into  a  piece  of  tough  leather?  If  you  'd  been  down  to 
breakfast  yourself  this  morning — " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  Father.  I'm  sorry,"  explained 
the  girl  hurriedly.  "I  had  mine  early,  and  did  n't 
wait  for  you.  I  was  going  to  the  conservatory.  But 
I  'm  sorry  about  the  steak  and  the  toast.  I  —  I  '11 
speak  to  Katy.  But,  first,  I  want  to  say  — " 

"And  while  you  are  about  it,"  interrupted  the  man, 
"I  wish  you'd  speak  to  Mary  about  the  sheets  on  my 
bed.  She  does  n't  tuck  them  in  at  all.  They  pull  out 
every  night.  Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  knew  you'd 
attend  to  it,"  he  finished,  turning  back  to  his  book. 

Irresolutely  the  girl  opened  her  lips.  Then,  with  a 
little  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  she  faced  about. 

"I'll  go  and  speak  to  Katy  and  Mary  right  away," 
she  said,  aloud.  To  herself  she  sighed,  as  she  left  the 
room:  "It's  no  use  now  for  the  other.  I'll  have  to 
wait  —  for  that." 

Downstairs  she  spoke  to  Katy  about  the  toast  that 

*EB  burned  and  the  beefsteak  that  was  like  tough 

eather.    She  spoke  also  to  Mary  about  the  sheets 

hat  would  not  stay  tucked.  But  before  she  could  say 

.0  either  what  was  on  her  own  mind,  both  had  spoken 

to  her.   Katy  said  the  laundress  had  not  come,  and 

what  should  she  do.    Mary  said  that  there  was  no 

more  toilet  soap  in  the  house,  and  where  should  she 

get  some. 


THE  PETTY  DETAILS  11 

It  was  not  until  after  dinner  that  Sister  Sue  found 
a  few  moments  quite  to  herself.  Her  father,  after  a 
somewhat  stormy  interview  and  a  grudging  consent  to 
leniency  as  to  his  son  Gordon's  misdemeanor,  was 
dozing  over  the  evening  paper.  Gordon  was  out  with 
some  of  his  friends.  May  had  gone  on  the  motor  ride. 
Katy  and  Mary  were  busy  with  their  own  affairs. 

With  a  sigh  of  content  Sister  Sue  dropped  herself 
on  to  the  couch  in  the  living-room  and  gave  herself 
up  to  blissful  reveries. 

After  all,  it  did  n't  matter  —  not  really  matter  — 
all  those  tiresome  details  of  soap  and  laundress,  motor 
parties  and  overrun  allowances.  It  was  n't  as  if  it 
was  to  continue  always  —  as  if  she  had  nothing  else 
all  her  life  to  look  forward  to.  Heaven  knew  she  had 
had  no  small  amount  of  it  in  the  past.  Not  but  that 
she  had  been  glad  to  do  everything  she  could,  of 
course.  Only  it  had  been  Sister  Sue,  Sister  Sue, 
Sister  Sue,  for  everything,  all  her  life,  especially  since 
the  little  mother  had  died  six  years  before;  and  some- 
times it  did  seem  as  if  — 

Like  a  panorama  the  years  of  her  childhood  and 
girlhood  unrolled  before  her. 

She  had  been  fourteen  when  her  mother  had  died. 
May  had  been  twelve,  and  Gordon  ten.  But  even 
before  that,  she  had  seemed  to  have  no  will  or  way  of 
her  own.  Always  it  had  been:  "Yes,  May,  your  sis- 
ter Sue  will  give  it  to  you";  or,  "Yes,  Gordon,  your 
sister  Sue  will  do  it  for  you."  And  Sister  Sue  had 
found  herself  acquiescing,  whether  it  were  to  give  up 
the  larger  apple  or  to  untie  an  obstinate  shoestring. 


12  SISTER  SUE 

Ever  since  she  could  remember,  it  had  been  like  that. 
Sister  Sue  was  the  eldest.  Sister  Sue  would  give  up, 
of  course.  And  Sister  Sue  had  given  up. 

Then  the  little  mother  had  died.  That  was  six  years 
ago.  More  than  ever,  after  that,  had  Sister  Sue 
"given  up."  It  seemed  to  her,  as  she  thought  of  it 
now,  that  for  the  last  six  years  she  had  done  noth- 
ing but  give  up.  Never  was  it  what  she  wanted.  It 
was  what  May  wanted,  or  Gordon  wanted,  or  Father 
wanted,  or  even  what  Katy  and  Mary  in  the  kitchen 
wanted!  Her  time,  her  thoughts,  her  wishes  —  they 
had  been  as  nothing  compared  to  the  time,  thoughts, 
and  wishes  of  everybody  else  in  the  house.  Why,  it 
had  got  so  that  they  all  thought  nobody  could  do 
anything  for  them  but  Sister  Sue.  They  had  just  got 
into  the  habit  of  thinking  that  Sister  Sue  must  do 
everything.  Even  outside,  among  their  friends,  she 
was  known  as  "Sister  Sue,"  and  was  often  called  so. 

And  it  was  not  right.  It  was  a  shame.  Was  she 
never  to  have  a  chance  to  live  her  own  life?  Why, 
here  she  was  twenty  years  old !  If  ever  she  was  going 
to  do  big  things,  real  things,  worth-while  things  that 
counted,  she  must  be  about  it.  And  Signor  Bartoni 
had  said  that  she  could  do  them.  He  had  said  that 
her  talent  was  wonderful;  that  it  would  be  a  "pi-tee" 
and  a  "cr-rime"  not  to  give  it  to  the  world.  What 
would  he  say  if  he  knew  that  that  wonderful  talent 
was  tied  to  a  missing  cake  of  soap  or  a  laundress  that 
did  not  come?  Would  he  not  call  that  a  "pi-tee"  and 
a  "cr-rime"? 

And  it  was  a  pity,  and  it  was  a  crime.  And  it  had 


THE  PETTY  DETAILS  13 

got  to  stop.  Not  but  that  she  loved  them  —  her 
father,  May,  Gordon.  She  loved  them  dearly.  She 
loved  them  so  well  that  sometimes  she  felt  almost 
ashamed  that  she  should  fret  and  fume  under  their 
constant  demands  upon  her.  But  she  could  love  them 
still,  just  as  well,  and  yet  be  free.  She  could  love  them 
better  even,  perhaps.  For  would  she  not  meanwhile 
be  doing  something  to  make  them  proud  of  her? 
Would  she  not  be  doing  something  that  would  be  a 
real  credit  to  them? 

And  it  was  not  as  if  they  really  needed  her.  Some 
one  else  could  see  that  May  wore  her  rubbers  and 
that  the  soap  was  bought.  There  was  Cousin  Abby. 
For  years  now  she  had  almost  begged  to  come.  Cousin 
Abby  was  forty,  a  widow  alone  in  the  world,  and 
poor;  and  she  knew  all  about  rubbers,  and  soap,  and 
such  things.  And  she  wanted  to  come.  To  be  sure, 
they  had  thought  that  they  did  not  want  Cousin 
Abby  (her  father,  May,  and  Gordon) ;  but  that  was 
just  because  they  preferred  to  let  Sister  Sue  do  it. 
They  always  preferred  to  let  Sister  Sue  do  every- 
thing. It  never  seemed  to  enter  their  heads  that  it 
was  just  possible  Sister  Sue  might  prefer  to  do  some- 
thing else,  sometimes. 

But  they  would  understand  —  she  was  sure  they 
would  understand  when  she  told  them.  And  they 
would  be  pleased  and  proud  and  glad  when  they  knew 
what  Signer  Bartoni  had  said.  They  would  be  willing 
to  have  Cousin  Abby  then.  She  knew  they  would. 

And  there  was  Martin  Kent.  She  was  not  so  sure  of 
Martin.  He  might  not  be  so  pleased.  He  did  not  care 


14  SISTER  SUE 

much  for  music.  Besides,  the  only  way  she  could 
please  him  was  to  say  she  would  marry  him  right 
away.  And  she  did  not  want  to  do  that.  Marry  him 
right  away,  indeed !  Why,  that  would  be  but  more 
of  the  same  thing  she  had  been  having  —  merely  a 
change  in  the  name  of  the  laundress  and  in  the  label 
on  the  cake  of  soap.  That  was  all.  Not  but  that  she 
expected  to  be  married  sometime,  of  course.  By 
and  by,  after  she  had  become  the  great  artiste,  and 
had  made  them  all  proud  of  her  —  time  enough  then 
to  get  married.  There  was  no  hurry. 

She  would  have  to  study,  of  course.  Oh,  how  she 
would  have  to  study  and  practice!  But  she  would  not 
mind  that.  She  would  love  it.  And  she  need  not 
worry  about  the  money  for  the  lessons.  Luckily 
there  had  always  been  plenty  of  money.  Besides, 
after  a  little  she  would  be  earning  something  herself. 
She  would  rather  like  that,  she  believed.  It  must  give 
one  such  an  independent  feeling ! 

It  only  remained  then  to  tell  them  —  her  father, 
May,  Gordon,  and  Martin  —  tell  them  the  wonderful 
future  in  store  for  her,  the  supreme  glory  she  was  go- 
ing to  bring  to  the  name  of  Gilmore  when  she  should 
have  become  the  great  artiste. 


CHAPTER  II 

ALL  FOR  LOVE 

IT  was  some  days  before  Sister  Sue  found  the  oppor- 
tunity of  telling  her  family.  She  wanted  them  all  to- 
gether when  she  told  them,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no 
appropriate  time  when  they  were  all  together.  Be- 
sides, of  late,  her  father  had  appeared  to  be  more  than 
usually  nervous  and  irritable,  for  some  unexplained 
reason;  and  she  never  liked  to  tell  him  disturbing 
things  when  he  was  in  an  unresponsive  mood.  And  he 
certainly  was  in  that  sort  of  mood  now.  He  seemed 
to  be  worried  or  anxious  over  something.  It  might  be 
business.  She  rather  suspected  that  it  was. 

She  could  not  even  tell  Martin.  As  it  happened, 
Martin  was  away  for  a  week.  There  was  nothing  to 
do,  therefore,  but  to  wait.  And  as  patiently  as  she 
could  Sister  Sue  set  herself  to  this  new  task,  daily 
comforting  herself  with  "Oh,  well,  it  is  n't  as  if  it  was 
n't  going  to  come  sometime!" 

Then,  almost  as  a  surprise,  the  night  before  Mar- 
tin Kent's  expected  arrival,  came  her  chance:  a  furi- 
ous storm  was  raging  outside,  and  the  Gilmore  family 
were  all  together  in  the  library. 

For  five  minutes  Sister  Sue  looked  a  little  fearfully 
into  the  faces  of  her  assembled  family;  then,  taking 
her  courage  in  both  hands,  she  spoke. 

She  told  them  first  of  what  Signer  Bartoni  had 
said.  She  enlarged  upon  the  wonder  of  such  praise 


16  SISTER  SUE 

from  such  a  source,  and  she  let  them  see  plainly  how 
much  it  meant  to  her.  She  told  them  then  of  her 
determination:  she  was  to  fit  herself  for  a  concert 
pianist.  She  was  to  try  to  prove  herself  worthy  of 
Signer  Bartoni's  high  commendation.  She  was  going 
to  make  of  herself  something  really  worth  while. 

With  a  little  breathless  choke  in  her  voice  she 
stopped.  Some  way  it  sounded  to  her  very  crude, 
very  commonplace,  now  that  she  had  said  it.  She  had 
intended  to  say  much  more.  She  had  hoped  to  bring 
to  their  eyes  the  wondrous  vision  of  herself  bowing  to 
enthralled  multitudes,  and  to  their  ears  the  intoxicat- 
ing clamor  of  ' '  Encore !  Encore !  Susanna  Gilmore ! " 
But  she  knew  that  she  had  done  very  far  from  that. 

She  felt  suddenly  shy  and  embarrassed.  She  was 
tempted  almost  to  run  away  upstairs  to  her  room. 
Though  she  realized  at  once  that  she  could  not  do 
that,  of  course.  There  was  yet  more  that  she  must 
say  —  much  more.  She  had  not  yet  spoken  at  all 
of  Cousin  Abby.  With  that  little  breathless  choke, 
therefore,  she  waited  now  for  some  sort  of  reply  to 
what  she  had  already  said. 

There  was  a  blank  half-minute  of  silence  that 
seemed  to  Sister  Sue  an  eternity.  Then  from  her 
father  came  this: 

"You  mean  you  are  going  to  turn  yourself  into  a 

-  a  show  girl  on  the  stage?" 

The  tension  snapped,  and  Sister  Sue  laughed  a  bit 
hysterically. 

"Not  exactly  thai,  Father  —  not  in  pink  tights 
and  spangles,"  she  twinkled;  then  in  a  very  different 


ALL  FOR  LOVE  17 

voice,  just  above  her  breath,  she  stammered:  "I'm 
going  to  be  a  —  great  artiste."  It  was  out,  with  all 
the  hushed  awe  and  glorified  elation  of  youth's  am- 
bition. 

There  was  another  benumbed  silence;  then  May 
began  doubtfully: 

"But  do  you  think  you  will  like  that  —  on  the 
stage  so?" 

"Of  course  she'll  like  it!  "  cut  in  Gordon,  with  sud- 
den vehemence.  "And  I,  for  one,  say,  'Bully  for  you, 
Sis!'  We're  going  to  be  proud  of  you." 

"Thank  you,  Gordon."  Sister  Sue's  eyes  glistened. 
"Of  course  I  hope  you  will,  but  we  can't  tell  about 
that  —  yet;  but  I'm  going  to  try,  oh,  you  don't  know 
how  I'm  going  to  study  and  practice  and  work." 
She  said  this  looking  straight  into  Gordon's  boyishly 
sympathetic  eyes.  Then,  with  a  little  relieved  sigh, 
she  turned  to  the  others.  "And  so  I'll  write  to  Cousin 
Abby  right  away,  and  see  how  soon  she'll  come,"  she 
finished. 

It  was  like  a  match  to  gunpowder. 

"Cousin  Abby!"  ejaculated  three  amazed,  angry 
voices.  Then  her  father  demanded:  "Come  here? 
What  do  you  mean?" 

The  amazed  anger  of  those  three  voices  had  not 
been  lost  on  Sister  Sue;  but  she  gave  no  sign  that 
she  understood  its  meaning. 

"Why,  come  here  to  live,  of  course  —  to  see  to 
things,  you  know,"  she  retorted  cheerily. 

"Nonsense!"  ejaculated  her  father. 

"But  we  don't  want  Cousin  Abby  here ! "  cried  May. 


18  SISTER  SUE 

"I  guess  no£/"  emphasized  Gordon. 

"But  you'll  have  to  have  her,"  reasoned  Sister  Sue. 
She  still  spoke  cheerily,  though  her  voice  had  lost 
some  of  its  assurance.  "You'll  have  to  have  some 
one,  and  I  should  think  she  would  be  the  best  of 
anybody." 

"But  we  don't  want  any  one  but  you,"  spoke  up 
May. 

"We  don't  need  any  one,"  declared  Gordon. 

"Come,  come,"  interposed  the  father  sharply; 
"there  is  no  need  of  going  through  all  this  again.  We 
settled  it  once  for  all  some  time  ago.  We  don't  want 
Cousin  Abby  nor  need  her.  What  is  more,  we're 
not  going  to  have  her.  We  're  doing  very  well  as  we 
are,  Sue.  Now  let  us  hear  no  more  about  it." 

"That's  just  it.  We  don't  want  any  one  but  our 
Sister  Sue,"  beamed  Gordon,  settling  back  in  his 
chair  as  at  the  satisfactory  conclusion  of  a  somewhat 
troublesome  matter. 

Sister  Sue  wet  her  lips,  but  her  voice,  as  she  spoke, 
still  carried  a  resolute  cheeriness. 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  understand.  I  shan't  be  here, 
you  see." 

Her  three  auditors  sat  suddenly  erect. 

"You  won't  be  here!  What  do  you  mean?"  de- 
manded her  father. 

"Why,  I  told  you.  I 'm  going  to  study.  I  Ve  got  to 
go  away.  I  'm  going  to  New  York  first,  then  I  want  to 
go  abroad." 

'Nonsense!"  cried  the  man,  with  an  impatient 
gesture. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE  19 

"Why,  Sister  Sue,  you  can't  go  away!"  expostu- 
lated May.  "Who'll  keep  house  for  us?" 

"Cousin  Abby.   That's  what  I'm  telling  you." 

It  came  then  —  the  storm  of  protest.  They  under- 
stood at  last.  They  were  not  only  indignant  and 
angry,  but  they  were  amazed  and  grieved.  Not  have 
Sister  Sue  at  home  with  them?  WThy,  it  was  absurd, 
unthinkable!  Why,  they'd  always  had  Sister  Sue. 
They  shouldn't  think  she'd  wish  to  go  — any- 
where, when  they  wanted  her  so  at  home! 

Sister  Sue  wet  her  lips  once  more,  and  began  all 
over  again  at  the  beginning.  She  tried  to  make  them 
see  what  it  meant  to  her  —  what  Signer  Bartoni  had 
said;  how  her  whole  future  happiness  was  bound  up 
in  this  great  wish  of  hers;  how  this  was  her  one  chance 
to  make  something  really  worth  while  of  her  life. 

In  the  end  she  won  a  grudging  consent  —  that  is,  if 
it  might  be  called  consent.  Her  father,  with  a  frown 
and  an  impatient  gesture,  sprang  to  his  feet,  mutter- 
ing as  he  left  the  room:  "Oh,  well,  well,  have  it  your 
own  way.  I've  too  many  troubles  of  my  own  to  think 
of  to  try  to  settle  yours." 

Gordon,  with  no  sympathy  in  his  eyes  now,  and  no 
"Bully  for  you!"  on  his  lips,  struck  a  match  with  Un- 
necessary vehemence.  "Of  course,  have  it  your  own 
way!"  he  snapped,  as  he,  too,  rose  to  his  feet  and  left 
the  room. 

Wistful-eyed  and  quivering-lipped,  Susanna  Gil- 
more  turned  to  her  sister. 

"May,  you  think — "  she  began.  But  May  in- 
terrupted her  sharply,  as  she,  also,  rose  to  her  feet. 


20  SISTER  SUE 

"It 's  just  as  well,  perhaps,  that  I  do  not  say  what 
I  think,"  she  vouchsafed  coldly. 

The  next  moment  Sister  Sue  was  alone. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  motionless,  her  eyes  on  the 
dancing  flames  on  the  hearth;  then,  as  if  to  a  refuge, 
she  flew  to  the  piano  in  the  music-room.  In  fifteen 
minutes  she  came  away,  rested,  refreshed,  serene,  and 
at  peace  once  more  with  the  world. 

It  was  always  like  that  with  Sister  Sue.  Let  her 
have  but  ten  minutes  of  improvising  at  the  piano, 
and  whether  it  was  joy,  sorrow,  anger,  or  a  fearsome 
questioning  that  had  strained  her  emotions  to  the 
breaking  point,  those  ten  minutes  of  vibrant  fellow- 
ship with  the  ivory  keys  had  brought  back  her  poise 
and  serenity  of  soul.  Sister  Sue's  family  irreverently 
called  it  "taking  it  out  on  the  piano."  And  it  was 
always  left  for  Gordon  to  add  with  a  roguish  twinkle 
that  they  were  mighty  glad  the  piano  was  there,  just 
the  same! 

Sister  Sue  wrote  to  Cousin  Abby  that  evening.  To 
herself  she  said  she  wanted  to  do  it  before  she  lost  her 
courage,  and  before  they  —  her  family  —  lost  theirs. 
The  letter  written,  she  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep. 
For  long  hours  she  lay  awake,  half  the  time  assuring 
herself  over  and  over  that  she  was  not  an  unfeeling, 
selfish  wretch,  unfilial  and  unsisterly,  to  want  to  live 
her  own  life;  the  other  half  spent  in  trying  to  plan 
what  she  should  say  to  Martin  Kent. 

Martin  would  not  like  it,  of  course.  She  was  quite 
sure  of  that.  He  would  much  prefer  that  she  should 
tell  him  she  had  decided  to  set  an  early  marriage  date. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE  21 

But  she  had  already  told  him  that  she  should  not  do 
that.  As  if  she  were  going  to  tie  herself  down  at  twenty 
years  of  age  to  what  would  be  merely  another  laun- 
dress and  another  brand  of  soap !  After  she  had  made 
a  name  for  herself  —  that  would  be  a  different  matter. 

So  Martin  would  not  be  exactly  pleased  with  what 
she  was  going  to  tell  him.  She  knew  that.  But  he 
would  not  be  like  her  father,  or  Gordon,  or  even  May. 
She  was  sure  of  that.  He  would  show  interest  and 
sympathy,  and  be  proud  and  excited  and  glad  when 
she  told  him  what  Signor  Bartoni  had  said.  He  al- 
ways praised  her  playing,  and  said  he  thought  she  had 
wonderful  talent.  So  he  would  understand  and  not 
object  —  not  really  object  —  to  her  wanting  to  make 
the  most  of  that  talent,  she  was  sure. 

Sister  Sue  went  to  sleep  then.  In  her  ears  once  more 
was  ringing  the  applause  of  uncounted  audiences, 
and  in  her  eyes  was  the  vision  of  herself  bowing  her 
thanks  to  the  clamorous  "Encore!  Encore!  Susanna 
Gilmore!  Encore!" 

Martin  Kent  called  the  next  evening. 

Martin  Kent  was  engaged  in  writing  the  Great 
American  Novel.  That  is,  he  said  it  was  going  to  be 
that  when  it  was  finished.  He  had  told  Sue  several 
times  that  it  was  going  to  be  by  far  the  best  thing  he 
had  ever  done. 

Martin  Kent  already  had  several  novels  to  his 
credit  —  or  discredit,  as  one  chose  to  look  at  it.  They 
were  more  or  less  erratic,  and  they  had  not  sold  well 
—  not  that  this  disturbed  their  author,  however. 
Martin  Kent  snapped  his  fingers  at  the  public  taste, 


22  SISTER  SUE 

with  a  disdainful  "Who  cares?"  and  a  merry  "I 
should  worry!"  To  be  sure,  there  were  those  who 
wondered  why  he  did  not  worry,  for  certainly  his  vis- 
ible means  of  support  were  very  slender.  He  was 
known  to  have  only  a  small  annuity  aside  from  what 
his  books  brought  him.  Others  —  one  of  whom  was 
Gordon  Gilmore  —  said  that  they  understood  quite 
well  why  he  did  not  worry:  he  did  n't  need  to  if  he 
was  going  to  marry  Susanna  Gilmore !  —  which  was 
a  most  unkind  insinuation  to  make,  especially  con- 
cerning one  who  was  at  that  very  moment  engaged  in 
writing  that  Great  American  Novel  which  would,  of 
course,  sell  away  into  the  hundreds  of  thousands. 
But  perhaps  Gordon  and  some  others  had  not  quite  so 
much  faith  in  this  Great  American  Novel. 

Sue  Gilmore  had  faith  in  it;  so,  too,  had  her  young 
sister  May.  May  was  particularly  interested:  was 
not  she  herself  writing  stories  also  —  or  trying  to? 
Was  not  she  going  to  write  the  Great  American 
Novel  sometime?  Of  course  she  was!  May  just 
knew  this  novel  of  Martin  Kent's  was  going  to  be 
a  wonderful  success!  May  did  not  realize,  perhaps, 
to  what  extent  that  confidence  on  her  part  had  to 
do  with  the  author's  black  eyes,  ready  smile,  and 
debonair  self  generally.  May  regarded  her  future 
brother-in-law  as  the  most  thrill  ingly  handsome  man 
she  had  even  seen  —  and  May's  experience  was  not 
limited.  She  was  familiar  with  the  features  of  nearly 
every  Adonis  of  the  screen  and  the  footlights.  As  for 
John  Gilmore  —  John  Gilmore  was  not  a  movie  fan, 
neither  was  he  thrilled  at  the  sight  of  Adonises  in 


ALL  FOR  LOVE  23 

everyday  life.  He  knew  little  of  the  Great  American 
Novel,  and  he  cared  less.  He  knew  little  of  Martin 
Kent  —  and  perhaps  he  cared  less  also.  That  the 
young  author  had  once  said  something  to  him  about 
wanting  to  marry  his  daughter,  Susanna,  he  remem- 
bered perfectly.  (He  had  answered:  "Well,  well, 
what  do  I  know  about  it?  Ask  your  sister  —  "  then 
he  had  caught  himself  just  in  time  and  finished  — 
"Ask  the  young  lady  herself,  sir."  He  remembered 
that.)  He  knew  now,  too,  that  there  was  some  sort  of 
an  "understanding"  between  the  two  young  people. 
But  the  fact  never  loomed  large  in  his  thoughts,  and 
carried  only  a  vague  consciousness  of  something  that 
was  possibly  to  happen  in  the  dim  and  distant  future. 
To-night,  when  Martin  Kent  called,  Sister  Sue  was 
alone  in  the  living-room.  John  Gilmore  was  closeted 
in  the  library  with  two  men  who  had  come  on  busi- 
ness soon  after  dinner;  and  May  and  Gordon  were  off 
for  the  evening.  Sister  Sue  was  glad  that  there  was  a 
prospect  of  having  the  room  quite  to  themselves.  She 
had  much  that  she  wanted  to  say  to  Martin  Kent;  and 
she  did  not  want  to  be  interrupted.  She  knew,  too, 
that  first  she  must  listen  to  what  Martin  Kent  himself 
had  to  say  of  his  own  doings.  Martin  Kent  always 
spoke  first  and  listened  afterwards.  Not  but  that  he 
was  entertaining  —  Martin  Kent  was  always  a  good 
talker.  It  was  just  that  it  was  his  way  to  start  in 
with  a  full  account  of  his  own  affairs  first,  as  if  they 
were  the  most  interesting  of  any  subject  that  could  be 
broached.  For  that  matter,  they  were,  many  times. 
Martin  Kent  was  always  having  unusual  experiences. 


£4  SISTER  SUE 

To-night  he  had  been  away  a  week  "getting  at- 
mosphere," he  said,  for  his  novel.  He  had  spent  the 
entire  time  in  a  little  Vermont  town  in  the  Green 
Mountains,  and  he  had  many  stories  to  tell  of  the 
splendid  "copy"  he  had  found  there.  Then  he  spoke 
of  the  story  itself. 

"And  it's  going  to  be  the  very  best  thing  I  ever 
did,"  he  cried,  his  face  alight. 

"I'm  glad.  And  —  and  you  look  very  happy, 
Martin,"  the  girl  said  a  little  wistfully. 

"I  am  happy.  Who  would  n't  be  happy?  Are  n't 
we  always  happy  when  we  know  we  are  doing  our  very 
best?" 

It  was  Sue's  chance,  and  she  grasped  it. 

"That's  it  —  that's  it,  exactly,"  she  interposed  a 
little  feverishly;  "and  that's  why  I  want  to  do  my 
best." 

The  man  laughed  lightly. 

"And  so  you  do,  my  dear;  you  always  do  your 
best." 

Impatiently  she  brushed  this  aside. 

"No,  no,  you  don't  understand.  I  mean  I  want 
to  do  my  best  —  in  my  music." 

"And  so  you  do,  I  say." 

"But  I  want  to  do  better!" 

"All  right!  That's  a  laudable  wish,  I'm  sure,"  he 
bantered. 

Impatiently  again  she  brushed  his  words  aside. 
And  then  she  told  him  —  hurriedly,  impetuously, 
with  little  half-finished  sentences  that  were  eloquent 
of  suppressed  fear  and  longing.  And  when  she  had 


ALL  FOR  LOVE  25 

finished  she  sat  back  palpitatingly,  her  eager  eyes  on 
Martin  Kent's  face.  She  was  so  sure  Martin  Kent 
would  understand  and  sympathize!  And  yet  — 

And  Martin  Kent  understood  —  but  he  did  not 
sympathize.  He  laughed  first,  and  called  the  idea 
silly  and  absurd,  and  he  asked  why  in  the  world,  with 
her  money,  she  should  care  to  take  up  a  thing  like 
that.  When  he  found  her  still  unmoved  he  became 
stern  and  dignified,  and  grieved;  and  he  reproached 
her  bitterly  that  she  should  prefer  a  public  career  to 
a  life  of  peace  and  love  under  his  sheltering  care. 

"But,  Martin,  I  haven't  said  that  I  wouldn't 
marry  you  sometime,"  she  argued,  in  response  to  this. 
"I've  just  told  you;  I  want  first  to  try  my  wings.  I 
want  to  do  something  really  worth  while.  I  want  to 
make  you  all  proud  of  me.  I've  got  it  in  me!  I  know 
I've  got  it  in  me,  to  make  people  see  what  I  see  and 
hear  what  I  hear  when  I  play.  Oh,  Martin,  don't  you 
see?" 

"I  see  —  that  you  don't  love  me,"  said  Martin 
Kent  passionately. 

He  tried  pleading  then.  With  all  his  emotional 
power  and  his  command  of  words,  he  appealed  to  her 
heart  and  to  her  sympathies.  He  pictured  her  life, 
barren  and  wasted,  without  love.  He  pictured  his 
own  work,  come  to  naught,  a  failure,  because  of  the 
lack  of  her  love  and  her  presence  as  an  incentive.  He 
pictured  themselves  grown  old  with  love  and  youth 
lost  forever.  As  he  drew  it,  it  was  a  picture  calcu- 
lated to  strike  cold  terror  to  the  stoutest  heart. 

Sister  Sue,  caught  up  in  the  whirlwind  of  his  woo- 


26  SISTER  SUE 

ing,  was  lifted  to  an  exaltation  of  surrender  and  self- 
sacrifice  that  saw  only  love  and  the  world  well  lost. 
And  Martin  Kent  went  away  that  evening  with  her 
promise  to  marry  him  in  July. 

"I  never  dreamed  he  cared  so  much  for  me,"  she 
sighed,  as  she  settled  herself  to  sleep  that  night. 
"And  it  is  nice  to  be  loved  like  that;  and  of  course 
such  love  really  is  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world ! " 

Just  as  she  was  dozing  off,  another  thought  came. 

"I  suppose  I  shan't  need  Cousin  Abby  —  now. 
He  said  I  could  live  right  along  here  just  the  same 
after  we  were  married.  But  —  oh,  well,  if  she  comes, 
let  her  come.  I  shan't  mind.  It'll  take  some  care 
away  from  me;  and  I  shall  want  more  time  to  myself 
when  I'm  married,  anyway,"  she  murmured  happily. 


CHAPTER  III 

COUSIN  ABBY 

SISTER  SUE  was  still  on  the  heights  of  self-surrender 
and  exalted  sacrifice  the  next  morning.  It  was  still  all 
for  love  and  the  world  well  lost,  with  her.  But  she 
decided  not  to  tell  her  family  of  the  change  in  her 
plans  until  Cousin  Abby's  letter  should  have  arrived, 
settling  beyond  doubt  whether  or  not  Cousin  Abby 
herself  was  coming. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait.  Cousin  Abby's  reply 
came  promptly,  almost  by  return  mail.  Cousin  Abby 
would  be  delighted  to  come.  She  was  not  only  glad 
to  be  of  service  to  them,  but  she  was  pleased,  she  was 
sure,  that  dear  Susanna  was  going  to  improve  her 
wonderful  talent  and  make  a  great  name  for  herself. 
She  could  come  now,  any  time;  just  as  soon  as  they 
wanted  her.  And  she  signed  herself  devotedly  theirs, 
Cousin  Abby  Herford. 

Sister  Sue  winced  a  little  and  bit  her  lip  over  the 
"wonderful  talent"  and  the  "great  name."  But  in- 
stantly she  scornfully  asked  herself  what  was  a  won- 
derful talent  or  a  great  name  compared  to  love  —  real 
love?  True,  at  the  same  time  she  put  both  her  hands 
to  her  ears  as  if  to  shut  out  an  insistent  something 
that  was  clamoring  to  be  heard.  And  she  hurried  very 
fast  to  tell  her  family  that  she  had  given  up  her  ca- 
reer, and  that  she  and  Martin  Kent  were  going  to 
be  married  in  July. 


28  SISTER  SUE 

Sister  Sue  did  not  wait  to  tell  her  family  all  at  once 
to-day.  She  took  them  as  she  found  them,  one  or 
two  at  a  time;  and  she  gave  her  information  hurriedly, 
almost  feverishly,  with  little  catches  of  her  breath  in 
her  throat. 

Their  manner  of  receiving  it  was  characteristic  in 
each  case. 

Her  sister  May  clasped  her  hands  to  her  breast  and 
drew  an  ecstatic  sigh  with  her  gaze  'on  the  ceiling 
as  she  cried:  "Oh,  Sister  Sue,  how  perfectly  lovely! 
And  you'll  have  a  church  wedding,  of  course,  and  I'll 
be  maid  of  honor!  What  shall  I  wear?  Oh,  you  lucky 
girl !  I  think  Martin  Kent  is  positively  the  handsom- 
est man  I  ever  saw,  and  so  do  all  the  girls.  They're 
simply  crazy  over  him!  Sue,  Sister  Sue,  what  shall 
I  wear?"  But  Sister  Sue  was  already  halfway 
down  the  stairway:  Gordon's  clear  whistle  of  the 
latest  bit  of  ragtime  had  sounded  from  the  hall 
below. 

Gordon  received  the  news  of  Sister  Sue's  coming 
marriage  with  a  smile  and  a  shrug. 

"I  expected  as  much.  All  right,  Sis,  I  wish  you  joy. 
He's  a  lucky  dog  all  right,  all  right!" 

It  was  two  days  before  Sister  Sue  found  a  chance  to 
tell  her  father.  When  he  was  not  away,  or  at  the  tele- 
phone, or  closeted  with  some  man  in  the  library,  he 
was  so  irritable  and  so  obviously  concerned  with  his 
own  affairs,  that  she  did  not  like  to  broach  the  sub- 
ject. And  when  she  did  tell  him  she  had  to  repeat 
her  words  before  she  penetrated  his  absorbed  absent- 
mindedness.  Even  then  she  elicited  only  an  abstracted 


COUSIN  ABBY  29 

"Yes,  yes;  well,  I'm  glad,  I'm  sure,"  as  he  got  up  to 
go  into  the  library. 

It  was  left  for  Gordon  to  precipitate  matters  by 
saying  that  same  night  at  the  dinner  table: 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Sister  Sue,  of  course  Cousin  Abby 
is  n't  coming  now,  I  take  it." 

"But  she  is,"  smiled  the  girl.  "I've  had  a  letter, 
and  she'll  come  at  any  time,  and  be  glad  to." 

"You  bet  she  would!"  Gordon  was  still  smiling. 
"But  of  course  she  won't  have  to,  now.  We  don't 
need  her." 

"No, of  course  not,"  interposed  May;  "for  of  course 
you'll  live  here,  Sue.  You  said  you  were  going  to." 

"You  bet  she 's  going  to  live  here,"  cut  in  Gordon 
with  a  sly  laugh. 

"Certainly  I'm  going  to  live  here."  Sister  Sue's 
chin  had  lifted  a  little.  Her  eyes  were  meeting  Gor- 
don's challenging  glance  with  a  flash  of  vague  an- 
noyance. "Martin  said  he  would  n't  think  of  taking 
me  away." 

"You  bet  he  would  n't!"  chuckled  Gordon,  again 
mischievously.  But  when  his  sister's  eyes  flashed  an- 
other questioning  glance  of  annoyance  toward  him, 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  repeated:  "Oh,  well, 
we  don't  need  Cousin  Abby  now,  anyway." 

"But  I've  just  told  you  she  is  coming,"  declared 
Sister  Sue,  with  some  spirit.  "We  asked  her,  and 
she's  accepted.  We've  got  to  have  her.  Besides,  I 
want  her.  There's  all  the  shopping  and  the  dress- 
making, and  I  shall  want  some  time  to  myself  after 
I'm  married;  and  — " 


30  SISTER  SUE 

"Will  you  have  the  bridesmaids  wear  pink  or 
blue?"  interrupted  May  eagerly. 

"Oh,  you  women!" cried  Gordon  disgustedly,  with 
the  blase  air  of  a  man  of  forty.  Then,  appealingly 
to  his  father:  "Dad,  say  something,  can't  you?  We 
don't  need  Cousin  Abby  here,  do  we?  Do  we,  Dad?  " 
he  repeated,  as  his  father  still  continued  to  gaze  ab- 
stractedly at  the  empty  plate  before  him. 

"Eh?  What?  Cousin  Abby?  Need  her?  How 
should  I  know?"  he  frowned  irritably.  "Ask  your 
sister  Sue.  I  —  I  Ve  got  other  things  to  think  of,"  he 
finished  as  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose  to  his 
feet. 

"But,  Father,  there's  the  dessert!  You're  not 
waiting  for  dessert,"  cried  his  elder  daughter. 

"Don't  want  any.  Had  enough  —  too  much," 
tossed  the  man  over  his  shoulder  as  he  disappeared 
through  the  doorway. 

At  the  table  the  three  young  people  exchanged 
glances.  Dessert  and  coffee  on  the  table,  and  the 
waitress  out  of  the  room,  May  spoke. 

"For  pity's  sake,  what's  the  matter  with  Father?" 
she  demanded  fretfully.  "He's  cross  as  two  bears 
lately." 

"Humph!  Make  it  three,"  shrugged  Gordon  dis- 
respectfully. 

"Hush!  I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  protested  Sister 
Sue,  a  worried  look  coming  to  her  face.  "Some- 
thing is  plaguing  him;  I  know  there  is.  Or  else  he's 
—  sick." 

"Well,  if  he's  sick,  I  know  who'll  have  to  be  his 


COUSIN  ABBY  31 

nurse  —  and  it  won't  be  Cousin  Abby,"  teased  Gor- 
don, his  eyes  merry. 

"Sue,  shall  we  wear  pink  or  blue,  or  will  you  have 
it  a  rainbow  wedding,  with  all  the  colors?  "  palpitated 
May.  "Oh,  have  it  a  rainbow  wedding,  Sister  Sue, 
please  have  it  a  rainbow  wedding!" 

"Yes,  please  have  it  a  rainbow  wedding,  Sister 
Sue!"  mocked  Gordon  mischievously.  "Only  I  sup- 
posed rainbows  came  after  the  storm  —  not  before 
it,"  he  chuckled  as  he  rose  from  the  table. 

"For  shame,  Gordon  Gilmore!"  remonstrated  May 
indignantly.  "As  if  there  was  going  to  be  any  storm 
after  this  wedding !  This  is  going  to  be  the  live-happy- 
ever-after  kind,  is  n't  it,  Sister  Sue?" 

But  Sister  Sue  only  drew  a  long  sigh.  Her  troubled 
eyes  were  still  on  the  doorway  through  which  John 
Gilmore  had  disappeared  a  few  moments  before. 

"May,  something  is  worrying  Father,"  she  said 
then,  in  an  anxious  voice,  rising  to  her  feet.  "I  won- 
der what  it  is." 

Two  days  later  she  knew.  Indeed,  the  whole  world 
knew  —  their  world.  For  big  black  headlines,  sprawl- 
ing across  the  front  page  of  every  morning  newspaper 
in  the  city,  told  that  the  old  firm  of  Gilmore  and 
Glode,  Bankers  and  Brokers,  had  gone  to  the  wall. 
They  told  also  that  Glode  had  shot  himself  in  his 
office,  and  that  the  senior  member,  John  Gilmore, 
had  collapsed  under  the  strain,  and  was  taken  home 
unconscious.  All  this  they  told.  But  they  did  not  tell 
of  the  horror  and  heartache,  the  tears,  exclamations, 
and  lamentations,  the  terror  by  night  and  the  con- 


32  SISTER  SUE 

fusion  by  day;  the  telephoning,  telegraphing,  mes- 
sengers, doctors,  nurses,  hurried  consultations,  and 
quick  orders. 

At  the  Gilmores'  it  was  Sister  Sue,  of  course,  whose 
shoulders  were  under  the  entire  load.  It  was  she  who 
quieted  May's  hysterics,  soothed  Katy  and  Mary, 
calmed  Gordon,  gave  directions,  sent  telegrams  and 
messages,  and  then  appeared  at  her  father's  bedside 
to  assure  his  waking  consciousness  that  everything 
was  all  right  and  that  he  was  not  to  worry  one  bit. 
And  John  Gilmore,  his  befogged  brain  not  in  con- 
dition to  realize  anything  clearly,  recognized  the  staff 
upon  which  he  had  leaned  for  the  past  six  years,  and 
obediently  leaned  back  to  the  comfortable  conscious- 
ness that  everything  was,  indeed,  all  right. 

From  Martin  Kent  Sister  Sue  had  received  first  a 
shocked  telephonic  inquiry,  then  a  box  of  beautiful 
roses  and  an  exquisitely  worded  note,  assuring  her  of 
his  undying  affection  and  sympathy,  and  telling  her 
how  hard  it  was  for  him  to  refrain  from  flying  on  the 
swift  feet  of  love  straight  to  her  side;  but  that  he 
realized  how  full  her  hands  and  heart  must  be  at  this 
most  distressing  time,  and  he  would  not  demand  even 
one  moment's  attention  to  add  a  feather's  weight 
to  her  already  overburdened  dear  self;  that  when 
things  were  more  calm  and  she  was  a  little  rested, 
he  would  come.  Until  that  time  he  was  her  very  de- 
voted lover,  whose  thoughts  were  always  with  her, 
even  though  he  was  forcing  his  feet  to  keep  from 
seeking  her. 

The  gist  of  this,  only  couched  in  very  different 


COUSIN  ABBY  33 

terms,  Sister  Sue  said  to  Gordon  in  response  to  his 
irate  question,  the  third  day  after  the  crash,  as  to 
where  Martin  Kent  was. 

"He  will  come  later.  He  wrote,  and  he  sent  me 
some  beautiful  flowers,  and  said  that  he  wanted  to 
come  now,  but  that  he  knew  I  'd  be  too  busy  to  see 
him,  and  he'd  wait  till  I  had  more  time." 

"Humph!"  growled  Gordon.  "Till  you  had  more 
time,  indeed !  Why  does  n't  he  come  and  do  something 
for  you,  so  you'll  have  more  time?" 

"Nonsense,  Gordon!  There's  nothing  he  can  do, 
I'm  sure,"  protested  Sister  Sue,  with  a  haste  so  pre- 
cipitate that  it  looked  suspiciously  like  an  old  argu- 
ment already  used  to  convince  some  one  other  than 
the  indignant  youth  now  before  her.  "He  —  he  is 
trying  to  help  the  best  way  he  knows,  by  staying  away 
and  not  bothering  us.  He  feels  so  sorry  for  us !  He 
wrote  a  beautiful  letter." 

"Humph!"  ejaculated  Gordon  again.  "A  lot  he 
cares!" 

"Oh,  but  he  does  care,"  interposed  May,  before 
her  sister  could  speak.  "I  saw  him  yesterday  on  the 
Avenue,  and  he  turned  and  walked  with  me;  and  he 
told  me  how  much  he  cared,  and  how  sorry  he  was 
for  us.  He's  broken-hearted." 

"Well,  maybe  he  is  that  —  at  the  failure  of  Gilmore 
and  Glode,"  murmured  the  young  fellow,  with  an  ex- 
pressive lift  of  the  eyebrow. 

"Indeed  he  is!"  If  there  was  a  covert  insinuation 
in  Gordon's  words,  his  sister  May  gave  no  sign  of 
having  noticed  it.  "And  he  spoke  perfectly  beauti- 


34  SISTER  SUE 

fully  of  Father,  and  said  how  dreadful  it  must  be  to 
see  him  like  this,  and  how  did  we  endure  it!  And  he 
said  he  never  could  stand  seeing  suffering  like  that. 
He  simply  couldn't.  He's  so  sensitive,  you  know! 
Oh,  he  feels  dreadfully,  I  know  he  does,"  reiterated 
May,  as  her  brother,  with  a  shrug  and  a  superior 
smile,  turned  away.  "Does  n't  he,  Sister  Sue?"  she 
appealed  then  to  the  elder  girl. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course!  Of  course  he  feels  dread- 
fully," corroborated  Sister  Sue.  "He  wrote  a  beau- 
tiful letter  —  a  perfectly  beautiful  letter.  And  he's 
coming  soon  to  see  us.  He  says  he  simply  can't  stay 
away  very  long." 

Sister  Sue  laughed  and  blushed  a  little  self-con- 
sciously as  she  finished  speaking.  But  there  was  still 
that  curious  little  precipitate  haste  in  voice  and  man- 
ner as  if  in  effort  to  carry  unmistakable  conviction. 

It  was  on  the  fourth  evening  after  John  Gilmore 
had  been  carried  upstairs  to  his  room  that  Martin 
Kent  called.  He  brought  red  roses  again;  and  he  had 
made  his  appointment  by  telephone.  His  fiancee 
was  awaiting  him  alone  in  the  living-room. 

He  was  very  tender,  very  loving.  Even  the  manner 
in  which  he  kissed  her  showed  how  deeply  grieved 
he  was  for  her.  And  to-night  it  was  not  his  own  affairs 
that  he  spoke  of  first. 

"Now  talk  to  me.  Tell  me  everything.  I  want  to 
know  all  your  plans,  darling,"  he  begged,  as  they 
seated  themselves  before  the  open  fire. 

She  drew  a  long  sigh.  Her  eyes,  fixed  on  his  face, 
were  wistful  and  infinitely  weary. 


COUSIN  ABBY  35 

"It  will  be  good,  just  to  sit  and  talk  —  a  little 
while,"  she  admitted.  "Oh,  Martin,  I'm  so  tired! 
There  have  been  so  many  things  to  think  of." 

"Of  course  there  have,  dear." 

"And  there  has  n't  been  any  one  but  me  to  decide 
—  everything." 

"I  know  it.  But  that's  nothing  new  —  to  you, 
dear."  He  was  plainly  trying  to  raise  her  spirits. 

She  smiled  faintly,  even  while  she  sighed. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know.  But  there's  never  been  any- 
thing like  this  before.  Oh,  Martin,  it's  so  awful,  so 
perfectly  awful  to  see  —  Father." 

The  man  stirred  a  little  restlessly. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know;  it  must  be  —  very  terrible.  But 
just  don't  —  don't  think  of  it,  darling." 

"But  I  have  to  think  of  it.  I  have  to  think  —  what 
to  do." 

"  You  mean  —  "  He  waited  for  her  to  finish  his  sen- 
tence. 

"I  mean  that  everything  will  have  to  be  different 
now,  of  course." 

He  threw  a  quick  look  into  her  eyes. 

"You  don't  mean  —  that  you  won't  marry  me?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  that.  There '11  be  the  wedding  —  only 
it'll  be  a  different  wedding."  She  smiled  a  little  wist- 
fully, and  her  voice  broke.  "It  won't  be  much  of 
a  rainbow  wedding  now,  I  guess,  with  pink  and  blue 
bridesmaids  and  flowers  and  music  and  a  big  church 
full  of  guests !  I  '11  be  lucky  if  —  if  I  have  a  white 
muslin  to  get  married  in." 

"As  if  I  cared  about  that!"  he  scoffed.  But  he  did 


36  SISTER  SUE 

not  meet  her  eyes  and  he  pulled  a  cigar  from  his 
pocket.   "You  don't  mind  if  I  smoke?" 

She  shook  her  head  —  an  entirely  unnecessary  con- 
cession, for  he  had  already  struck  the  match  alight. 

"Of  course  you  know  we  —  we  Ve  lost  everything," 
she  said,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"So  I  judged  if  the  newspapers  told  the  truth," 
he  nodded.  "But  as  if  we  cared  for  that!"  he  ex- 
claimed, his  eyes  still  turned  away.  "However,  was 
it  really  as  bad  —  as  they  made  it  out?" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  Of  course  Father  can't  be  ques- 
tioned. It  would  n't  do  any  good  if  we  did  question 
him.  He  doesn't  remember  —  much.  And  it's  a 
mercy  he  does  n't,  of  course." 

"But  won't  he  ever  remember?" 

"Perhaps  —  some  things.  The  doctor  says  he'll 
be  better  than  this  very  soon,  and  he  may  live  for 
years.  But  he  probably  won't  ever  be  quite  right  in  his 
mind  again.  'T  was  a  nervous  breakdown  —  a  sort  of 
shock  to  the  nerves,  he  says.  Oh,  Martin,  it 's  awful ! " 

"Yes,  I  know."  Again  the  man  stirred  restlessly. 
"But  what  —  what  are  your  plans?" 

"We  don't  know  yet,  except  that  we're  to  give  up 
everything,  of  course.  That's  what  folks  always  do, 
when  they  fail,  isn't  it?"  She  gave  a  weary  little 
smile.  "Mr.  Loring  has  been  out  here  every  day.  He 
knows  everything  about  Father's  affairs,  you  know 
—  more  than  even  Father  himself,  I  guess.  Anyway, 
he  knows  enough.  We'll  have  to  give  up  the  house 
and  the  cars  and  everything  here,  of  course." 

"But  where  will  you  go?" 


I   LL  BE  LUCKY  IF  —  IF  I  HAVE  A  WHITE  MUSLIN 
TO  GET  MARRIED  IN  " 


COUSIN  ABBY  37 

"  Vermont  —  Gilmoreville.  Father  owns  the  old 
Gilmore  homestead  there,  and  Mr.  Loring  says  he 
thinks  he  can  save  that  for  us.  It  is  n't  much  of  a 
place,  but  you'd  think,  to  hear  Mr.  Loring,  that 
't  was  a  gold  mine,  and  we  were  the  luckiest  things 
to  have  that  much.  And  —  well,  maybe  we  shall  be," 
she  laughed  unsteadily. 

"What  sort  of  a  place  is  it?  Ever  been  there?" 

"Not  much  lately.  We  used  to  go  when  we  were 
children,  and  we've  been  there  a  little  two  or  three 
times  since,  in  the  summer.  It's  just  a  big  country 
house  in  a  country  town.  I  must  confess  I  don't 
exactly  anticipate  it.  And  I  have  n't  dared  to  tell 
Gordon  and  May  yet." 

"It's  a  shame,  Sue!  I  declare,  I  —  I  wouldn't 
stand  it!"  cried  the  man. 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  long  sigh. 

"I'm  afraid  we've  got  to.  It's  the  only  thing,  Mr. 
Loring  says.  And,  anyway"  —  her  eyes  flashed  a 
sudden  spark  almost  mirthful  —  "I  have  thought  of 
one  advantage.  It'll  be  good  for  you.  You  won't 
have  to  go  away  for  —  copy,  Martin!" 

With  a  sudden  exclamation  the  man  sprang  to  his 
feet.  Up  and  down  the  room  he  paced,  twice,  three 
times,  before  he  turned  squarely  about  and  faced  the 
girl  who  was  looking  up  at  him  with  eyes  that  showed 
a  puzzled  questioning. 

"Why,  Martin,  what's  the  matter?"  she  cried. 
"What  have  I  said?  You've  talked  yourself  about 
hunting  in  country  towns  for  —  copy!" 

"Sue,  I've  been  thinking."  He  was  still  standing, 


38  SISTER  SUE 

facing  her.  There  was  something  tense  about  voice 
and  manner.  "I  —  I  shan't  be  there  to  —  to  watch 
for  copy." 

"Why  — Martin!"  She  had  leaned  forward.  She 
sank  back  in  her  seat  now,  slowly,  uncertainly,  her 
eyes  still  searching  his  face. 

With  an  abrupt  movement  the  man  came  and  sat 
down  in  the  chair  at  her  side.  He  took  both  her 
hands  in  his  and  held  them  fast  while  he  talked. 

"Dearest,  I've  been  thinking.  All  these  days  while 
I  've  been  away  from  you  I  Ve  been  thinking.  I  could 
think  then.  I  can't  think  when  I  'm  with  you.  I  only 
think  how  I  want  you.  But  these  last  few  days  I  Ve 
been  thinking  —  of  what  you  said  to  me  the  other 
night." 

"The  other  night?" 

"About  your  music  —  what  you  longed  to  do; 
what  Signor  Bartoni  said  youcould  do.  And  I  thought 
how  your  dear  eyes  sparkled  and  shone,  and  how  your 
whole  face  was  illumined  as  you  talked.  And  I  thought 
what  a  selfish  brute  I  was  to  attempt  to  chain  your 
bright  spirit  to  sordid  everyday  living,  just  because  / 
wanted  you  with  me.  And  so  I  came  to-day  deter- 
mined to  make  amends  as  best  I  could.  And  now  I  'm 
telling  you.  I  take  it  back  —  all  my  pleading.  You 
have  my  full  and  free  consent  to  spread  your  wings 
and  fly.  You  have  not  only  that,  but  my  loving  sym- 
pathy and  all  my  good  wishes." 

"You  mean  —  ?"  Her  eyes  were  incredulous. 

"I  mean,  go  on  with  your  music.  Make  a  name  for 
yourself  among  the  very  greatest  of  earth." 


COUSIN  ABBY  39 

"But,  Martin,  I  —  I  gave  that  all  up,"  she  fal- 
tered. 

"Why?" 

"Why,  because  of  —  of  what  you  said." 

"Exactly !  I  knew  it!"  he  triumphed.  "And  that's 
just  what  I  mean !  You  gave  it  up  because  of  me,  and 
of  what  I  said;  because  of  my  selfishness.  And  I  won't 
have  it.  I  've  come  to  my  senses  now.  I  was  a  brute, 
darling,  a  selfish  brute.  But  I  'm  not  one  any  longer. 
Why,  sweetheart,  do  you  think  I'd  ever  be  happy 
again  if  I  tied  you  down  like  that?  Never!  And  now, 
dear,  go  out  and  win.  I  want  you  to !  And  you  can 
win!  You've  got  it  in  you!  I  know  you  have !" 

He  said  more,  much  more.  With  all  the  eloquence 
with  which  he  had  pleaded  against  this  "music  mad- 
ness" of  hers,  he  pleaded  now  for  it  —  only  now  it 
was  not  music  madness.  It  was  her  "God-given  mes- 
sage to  the  world." 

And  his  task  was  easier  this  time;  for  it  was  not 
nearly  so  hard  to  bring  back  to  the  girl's  ears  the 
"Encore!  Encore!  Susanna  Gilmore!"  as  it  had 
been  to  silence  those  clamorous  voices  a  few  short  days 
before.  And  in  the  end  he  won,  if  Sister  Sue's  eager 
face  and  shining  eyes  were  any  criterion  —  until  a 
new  thought  came  to  the  girl's  mind. 

"Oh,  but,  Martin,  I  forgot.  I  can't  now,"  she  de- 
spaired. "There's  the  money." 

"Have  n't  you  anything  of  your  own?" 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"Not  a  thing  —  except  some  Magda  Silver  Mine 
stock,  which  is  n't  worth  a  cent,  Mr.  Loring  says. 


40  SISTER  SUE 

Father  gave  all  us  children  ten  thousand  shares 
apiece  ages  ago.  He's  never  given  us  money,  only 
an  allowance  every  month.  Next  year,  when  I  am 
twenty-one,  he  was  going  to  give  me  something.  He 
always  said  he  was.  But  now  —  Martin,  I  —  I  can't, 
after  all,"  she  choked.  "I  have  n't  the  money." 

"Pooh!  Earn  it!"  he  challenged  her.  "As  if  you 
could  n't  teach  and  study,  too !  And  it  '11  be  all  the 
more  credit  to  you  when  you  do  reach  the  goal." 

"But  do  you  really  think  I  could?" 

"I  know  you  could." 

She  drew  an  ecstatic  breath,  though  it  ended  in  a 
sigh. 

"Of  course,  there's  Father  to  be  looked  out  for;  but 
he  '11  be  all  right.  Cousin  Abby  's  coming  soon,  and 
the  doctor  says  he  '11  be  up  and  around  the  room  in 
a  few  days,  anyway.  Besides,  Cousin  Abby 's  a  won- 
derful nurse  and  housekeeper.  She's  very  capable. 
I  should  n't  worry  a  bit  with  Cousin  Abby  here  —  I 
mean  there  in  Gilmoreville." 

"Then  that's  all  right,"  summed  up  the  man; 
"and  everything's  all  right.  And  you  forgive  me 
now,  for  having  been  such  a  selfish  brute  in  the  first 
place?" 

"Why,  y-yes  —  no  —  I  mean,  you  were  n't  a  selfish 
brute,  Martin." 

The  girl  spoke  feverishly,  a  little  incoherently.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  shone.  She  had  the 
air  of  one  who  has  come  out  of  a  shadowy  forest  into 
the  bright  sunlight  where  the  way  shows  straight  be- 
fore, leading  to  cloud-kissed  heights  beyond,  and  yet 


COUSIN  ABBY  41 

who  cannot  quite  believe  the  evidence  of  eyes  and 
ears. 

"Do  you  think  really  I  could  —  do  —  it?"  she 
faltered. 

"I  know  you  could,"  he  assured  her  again.  And  at 
his  answer  the  peace  of  a  great  content  settled  upon 
her  countenance. 

It  was  still  there  when  Martin  Kent  went  away, 
leaving  with  her  as  a  good-bye  thought:  "And  we're 
all  going  to  be  so  proud  of  you!" 

Once  again  through  the  long  night  watches  Sister 
Sue  lay  awake  and  thought.  She  was  more  calm  now, 
more  rational.  True,  the  clamorous  "Encore!  En- 
core! Susanna  Gilmore!  Encore!"  was  still  in  her  ears; 
but  as  a  bit  of  ballast  to  keep  her  feet  on  the  ground 
there  was  the  thought  that  it  now  must  all  be  brought 
about  by  her  own  efforts. 

No  golden-paved,  flower-bedecked  path  of  gentle 
ascent  led  to  the  heights  for  her.  Nothing  but  her  own 
digging  would  open  the  path  before  her  now;  and 
every  step  upward  must  be  quarried  out  of  the  rock 
of  opportunity  by  her  own  hand.  Martin  had  said 
that.  The  girl  thought  of  it  now,  and  thrilled  to  the 
challenge  of  the  words. 

Of  course  she  could  do  it!  It  just  meant  teaching 
while  she  was  studying;  and  even  in  the  teaching  she 
would  be  learning.  Besides,  she  had  an  added  incen- 
tive now.  Was  it  not  absolutely  necessary  that  she 
go  out  into  the  world  and  earn  money?  And  how 
fortunate  that  she  had  this  wonderful  talent  to  enable 
her  to  do  it! 


42  SISTER  SUE 

And  she  would  make  big  money  when  she  should 
have  become  the  great  artiste.  They  always  did. 
She  was  sure  they  did.  And  how  she  would  love  to  add 
comforts  and  luxuries  to  the  home,  and  make  life 
easier  for  her  father.  Poor  Father!  Oh,  how  dread- 
ful it  all  was ! 

But  she  would  not  think  of  that.  She  would  think  of 
how  she  was  going  to  be  the  rescuer.  She  would  think 
of  the  tangible  help  and  comfort  she  was  going  to 
bring  into  the  home.  And  it  was  so  especially  won- 
derful, because  all  the  while  she  would  be  doing  what 
she  most  wanted  in  all  the  world  to  do  —  go  on  with 
her  beloved  music,  and  make  for  herself  a  name  and  a 
place  that  was  really  worth  while. 

And  how  good  of  Martin  Kent  to  let  her  do  it, 
after  she  had  promised  to  marry  him  in  July !  But,  of 
course,  it  was  only  for  a  time.  Later  they  would  be 
married.  But  now  — 

And  once  more  with  the  inspiriting  "Encore!  En- 
core! Susanna  Gilmore!  Encore!"  in  her  ears,  she 
fell  asleep. 

In  the  morning,  at  the  breakfast-table,  Sister  Sue 
broke  the  news  to  her  brother  and  sister  that  they 
were  to  go  to  Gilmoreville  to  live.  The  new  joy  that 
had  come  to  her  had  given  her  courage  for  the  un- 
pleasant task.  Besides,  she  realized  that  the  time  had 
come  when  they  must  know  the  changes  in  store  for 
them.  Yet  her  heart  beat  faster  and  her  lips  were  dry 
as  she  began  to  speak. 

"Well,  children,  of  course  you  know  that  we've  got 
to  leave  here,"  she  announced  cheerfully.  "So  I  sup- 


COUSIN  ABBY  43 

pose  the  sooner  we  begin  to  prepare  for  it,  the  better. 
The  doctor  says  Father  will  be  up  and  dressed  in  a 
week;  and  Mr.  Loring  says  we  'd  better  begin  to  break 
up  as  soon  as  possible  after  that." 

"Tough  luck!"  ejaculated  Gordon. 

"I  suppose  we'll  have  to  go  into  a  snippy  little 
house  or  flat  on  some  mean  little  street,  and  we  '11  be 
so  ashamed  when  folks  call,"  May  pouted. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  contradicted  Sister  %ue,  with  a 
jauntiness  that  was  a  little  forced.  "They'll  have  to 
come  a  long  way  if  they  're  going  to  call  on  us !  We  're 
going  to  Gilmoreville." 

"That  little  country  town?"  Gordon's  voice  ex- 
pressed unbelieving  disgust. 

"But  of  course  it's  only  for  the  summer,"  sug- 
gested May  hopefully. 

Sister  Sue  wet  her  lips.  It  was  going  to  be  even 
harder  than  she  thought. 

"We  don't  know  how  long  it'll  have  to  be,"  she 
reasoned,  still  cheerily.  "But  however  long  it's  to  be 
we've  got  to  go;  so  don't  fret.  Besides,  Gilmoreville 
is  a  lovely  old  town,  and  we  may  enjoy  it.  Who 
knows?" 

"Enjoy  it!  —  a  stupid  little  place  like  that?"  dis- 
dained May.  "Why,  Sue,  you  know  what  that  town 
is.  There  is  n't  a  thing  going  on,  and  we  just  hated  it 
the  last  time  we  were  there !  Have  we  got  to  go?  "  she 
demanded  tearfully. 

"Yes,  we've  got  to  go." 

"Oh,  well,  cheer  up,"  cut  in  Gordon.  " There  ought 
to  be  good  fishing  and  maybe  hunting;  and  the  cars  '11 


44  SISTER  SUE 

help.  Besides,  we'll  be  off  to  school  winters,  anyway. 
So  we  shan't  be  there  much,  after  all." 

"Well,  yes,  that's  so,"  admitted  May,  a  little  less 
dolefully.  "We  shan't  be  there  much,  after  all." 

Sister  Sue  wet  her  lips  again.  She  assumed  a  blithe 
confidence  she  was  very  far  from  feeling. 

"Oh,  come,  come,  children,  this  will  never  do  in  the 
world.  This  is  n't  a  matter  for  argument.  We  Ve  just 
got  to  do  it  and  there 's  no  use  fretting.  Furthermore, 
there  won't  be  any  car  nor  any  expensive  schools  and 
colleges  for  either  of  you  —  just  yet.  You  don't  seem 
to  understand.  We're  poor,  I  tell  you." 

"No  car!  No  college!"  cried  Gordon. 

"Have  we  lost  everything?"  demanded  May. 

Sister  Sue  sighed. 

"I  should  think  so,  pretty  nearly,  by  the  way  Mr. 
Loring  talks.  He  seems  to  think  we  're  lucky  to  have 
even  Gilmoreville  to  go  to." 

"It's  all  so  blamed  sudden,"  fumed  Gordon. 

"To  us  —  yes.  But  I  don't  think  it  was  —  to 
Father."  Sister  Sue's  voice  shook  a  little.  "He 's  been 
worried  and  irritable  and  absent-minded  for  quite  a 
while.  You  know  he  has." 

"But  I  don't  see  how  we're  going  to  live  at  all," 
quavered  May.  "  I  don't  see  how  we  're  going  to  stand 
it!" 

"But  we've  got  to  stand  it,"  declared  her  sister. 
"We've  just  got  to!  And  it  may  not  be  so  bad,  after 
all.  Just  think  of  the  ideas  for  stories  you  may  get 
there,  May!  You  know  Martin  loves  just  such  places 
for  copy.  We  shall  have  to  let  Mary  go,  of  course; 


COUSIN  ABBY  45 

but  we'll  take  Katy.  And  Cousin  Abby's  a  splendid 
housekeeper  and  a  good  nurse  for  Father  if  he  should 
need  her.  Besides,  we'll  hope  it  won't  be  for  long.'* 
A  rosy  glow  suffused  her  face,  and  her  eyes  grew 
luminous.  "I 'm  going  to  earn  money.  I  have  n't  told 
you  that.  Maybe  I  can  earn  enough,  after  a  little,  to 
help  about  the  schools,  too,  for  both  of  you.  Oh,  I 
hope  I  can!" 

"Earn  money!   You!"  ejaculated  Gordon. 

"Yes.  I 'm  going  on  with  my  music.  I'm  going  to 
do  —  what  I  wanted  to  do  before,  only  now  I  shall 
have  to  work  a  little  harder,  because  I  shall  have  to 
teach  while  I'm  studying  to  pay  my  way.  But  when 
I've  won  out  —  when  I  get  there,"  she  hurried  on, 
ignoring  their  interrupting  ejaculations,  "then  the 
money '11  begin  to  come  in  instead  of  going  out,  and 
—  and  we  shan't  have  to  live  in  Gilmoreville  any 
longer!" 

She  stopped,  a  little  out  of  breath,  her  eager,  glow- 
ing eyes  seeking  first  one  face,  then  the  other,  for  ap- 
preciation, understanding,  and  answering  enthusiasm. 
But  she  found  neither  appreciation  nor  understand- 
ing. She  found,  too,  no  answering  enthusiasm.  She 
found  only  disappointment,  dismay,  and  vexed  an- 
ger in  the  faces  before  her. 

"You  don't  mean  we've  got  to  go  to  that  awful 
place  to  live,  and  have  Cousin  Abby,  too,  all  alone, 
and  not  have  you  at  all?"  gasped  May. 

"Oh,  come,  Sis,  that's  too  much  to  expect  any 
fellow  to  stand!"  exploded  Gordon  wrathfully. 

"But  there's  the  money  —  I'm  going  to  earn  the 


46  SISTER  SUE 

money.  We  need  the  money,"  urged  Sister  Sue. 
"You  don't  want  to  forget  that."  r 

"We're  not  forgetting  Cousin  Abby  either,"  cut 
in  Gordon.  "We're  not  forgetting-  He  stopped 
short,  an  odd  look  coming  to  his  face.  "Why,  where 
does  Kent  come  in?  I  thought  you  two  were  going  to 
be  married?" 

"  We  were;  but  we  are  n't  now  till  later.  He 's  going 
to  let  me  go  on  with  my  music  and  —  and  be  a  con- 
cert pianist  instead.  He  knew  how  I  wanted  to.  He 
said  that  he  felt  that  it  was  very  wrong  and  selfish  for 
him  to  try  to  keep  me  from  it.  So  he  let  me  off  from 
my  promise  to  marry  him  in  July." 

"Humph!  I  notice  he  did  n't  let  you  off  until  after 
—  this  happened,"  observed  Gordon. 

Again,  if  there  was  a  covert  insinuation  in  the 
youth's  words  and  manner,  no  one  seemed  to  notice 
it. 

"There  wasn't  the  need,  before,  that  I  should 
earn  money,"  Sister  Sue  reminded  him,  with  some 
dignity. 

"But  there's  all  that  beautiful  rainbow  wedding," 
bemoaned  May.  "Oh,  Sue,  how  can  you  give  it  all 
up?" 

"Oh,  but  think  of  what  I'm  getting!"  cried  Sister 
Sue,  her  face,  still  eager  and  alight.  "To  go  on  with 
my  work,  and  -  Oh,  the  mail,"  she  broke  off  as  Katy 
appeared  at  the  door,  several  letters  in  her  hand,  the 
greater  share  of  which  a  moment  later  were  placed  at 
the  elder  daughter's  plate. 

While  Gordon  was  reading  his  single  letter,  and 


COUSIN  ABBY  47 

May  hers,  Sister  Sue  picked  out  a  pale-blue  envelope 
from  the  pile  and  hastily  opened  it. 

As  she  read,  all  the  light  and  eagerness  faded  from 
her  face,  leaving  it  suddenly  pinched  and  drawn-look- 
ing. With  hands  that  shook  a  little,  she  folded  the 
letter,  put  it  back  in  its  envelope  and  raised  her  head. 
The  cold  quietness  of  her  voice  as  she  began  to  speak 
won  the  instant  attention  of  both  her  auditors. 

"You  need  not  worry  any  more  about  Cousin  Abby. 
She 's  just  written  me  a  letter.  She  sends  her  love  and 
sympathy  in  this  time  of  our  great  trial,  and  says 
she  could  n't  think  of  burdening  us  with  her  presence 
at  a  time  like  this.  So  she's  not  coming." 

The  next  minute  May  and  Gordon  found  them- 
selves alone.  Sister  Sue  had  picked  up  her  letters  and 
left  the  room. 

"Why,  what — "  began  May,  with  puzzled  eyes. 

"Quitter,  quitter!"  stormed  Gordon.  It  was  as  if 
the  surge  of  emotion  of  the  last  few  minutes  had 
found  a  welcome  outlet.  "That's  just  the  kind  of  a 
woman  I  thought  Cousin  Abby  was!" 

"Why,  Gordon,  aren't  you  glad?  I  thought  you 
did  n't  want  Cousin  Abby  to  come!"  cried  May. 

"What  if  I  don't?"  retorted  Gordon,  with  the 
lofty  scorn  of  an  unaccustomed  cloak  of  righteous  in- 
dignation. "That  doesn't  hinder  my  saying  she's 
a  quitter,  does  it?  And  her  always  teasing  to  come 
when  we  had  plenty  of  money,  and  backing  out  now 
just  when  we  want  her!" 

"But  we  don't  want  her,"  demurred  May,  with  a 
frown. 


48  SISTER  SUE 

"That  does  n't  make  any  difference  —  she  does  n't 
know  it.  She's  a  quitter,  just  the  same;  and  all  be- 
cause we're  poor  now,  and  she  can't  ride  in  the  lim- 
ousine, and  order  the  maids  around,  and  cut  a  dash 
generally.  You  know  what  she  was  that  time  Sister 
Sue  was  sick!  She's  a  quitter,  I  tell  you,"  decreed 
Gordon,  still  wearing  that  unaccustomed  cloak  of 
righteous  scorn  as  he  rose  from  the  table. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"LAST  THINGS" 

THEY  were  not  easy  —  those  days  that  followed;  they 
were  not  easy  for  any  of  the  Gilmore  family,  least 
of  all  for  Sister  Sue,  the  answerer  of  every  question, 
the  buffer  for  every  complaint,  the  final  arbiter  of 
every  dispute. 

They  were  the  easiest,  perhaps,  for  the  suddenly- 
grown-old  man  in  the  master's  chamber  upstairs. 
John  Gilmore  was  up  and  dressed,  and  about  his  room 
now.  The  doctor  said  he  was  much  better;  that  he 
would  probably  continue  to  gain  until  he  was  physi- 
cally able  to  do  most  of  the  things  that  any  fairly 
healthy  man  sixty-five  years  old  could  do.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done,  therefore,  but  to  keep  him  in 
the  best  health  possible  —  until  the  inevitable  final 
breakdown  came,  perhaps  in  one  year,  perhaps  in 
two  years,  perhaps  not  for  five,  or  even  ten  years.  He 
had  the  mentality  at  present  of  a  child.  That  might 
improve,  and  it  might  not.  He  should  be  kept  happy 
and  contented  —  and  it  would  take  very  little  to  do 
that,  usually.  Though  there  might  be  times  —  The 
doctor  did  not  finish  his  sentence;  and  Sister  Sue, 
to  whom  he  had  been  speaking,  did  not  press  the 
matter,  after  a  glance  at  his  face,  and  at  her  father's. 

John  Gilmore  recognized  his  children,  realized 
where  he  was,  and  understood  that  he  had  been  sick 
and  was  getting  better.  He  even  knew  that  he  was 


50  SISTER  SUE 

going  to  his  old  home  in  Gilmoreville  before  long; 
and  he  was  anticipating  the  trip  very  much,  he  said. 
He  liked  Gilmoreville,  and  it  would  be  good  to  see 
the  old  home  again.  He  asked  his  daughter  Sue  if  his 
mother  was  going  to  be  there.  And  his  daughter, 
with  only  a  little  catch  of  the  breath  to  betray  the  fact 
that  she  knew  his  mother  had  been  dead  twenty-five 
years,  told  him  quietly  no,  she  would  not  be  there. 

There  was  little  that  John  Gilmore  could  do  to 
occupy  his  time.  He  could  read,  but  reading  seemed 
to  tire  him.  He  liked  better  to  cut  out  the  advertis- 
ing pictures  from  the  papers;  and  his  daughter  Sue, 
seeing  this,  brought  in  some  children's  bright-colored 
picture  books  one  day,  which  pleased  him  greatly. 
He  never  spoke  of  business.  He  never  mentioned  the 
firm  of  Gilmore  and  Glode.  And  those  who  talked 
with  him  were  only  too  glad  that  he  should  keep  si- 
lence on  the  subject.  They  were  very  thankful  that 
Memory,  however  sadly  she  had  served  him,  had  at 
least  done  him  this  one  good  turn. 

Not  that  there  were  many  who  talked  with  him  or 
who  saw  him.  The  doctor,  of  course,  came,  but  only 
twice  a  week  now.  Mr.  Loring  had  come  once;  but, 
though  Mr.  Gilmore  called  him  by  name,  and  asked 
politely  for  his  health,  yet  his  presence  seemed  to  fill 
the  invalid  with  a  vague  unrest,  evidenced  by  uneasy, 
searching  glances  into  the  visitor's  face,  and  a  nerv- 
ous tapping  of  the  fingers  on  the  arms  of  the  chair. 
So  Mr.  Loring  did  not  come  again. 

Martin  Kent  had  called  once;  but  he,  too,  had  not 
come  again,  though  John  Gilmore  had  greeted  him 


LAST  THINGS  51 

cordially,  and  had  seemed  to  enjoy  showing  him  the 
new  pictures  he  had  been  cutting  out. 

Gordon  and  May  never  came  into  the  room  now. 
Urged  by  Sister  Sue  they  had  come  a  few  times  at 
first,  for  a  very  few  moments.  But  almost  at  once 
they  had  fled,  shuddering,  with  their  hands  to  their 
ears  and  a  horror-stricken  "Oh,  Sister  Sue,  Sister 
Sue,  how  can  you  bear  to  see  him  like  that?" 

Even  Mary  did  not  come  into  the  room  now  to 
make  the  bed  and  "tidy  up."  After  the  third  burst  of 
tears  and  the  third  shriek  on  her  part  in  answer  to  her 
master's  query  as  to  whether  or  not  she  liked  to  cut 
out  the  pretty  pictures,  Sister  Sue  excused  her  from 
further  duties  in  the  room,  thenceforth  taking  upon 
herself  the  task  of  keeping  the  chamber  in  order,  ex- 
cept for  the  weekly  cleaning  when  Mary  came  in,  and 
John  Gilmore  walked  through  his  bathroom  to  his 
"den"  beyond  —  a  room  in  which  he  had  never  cared 
to  stay  and  which  he  now  seemed  to  dislike  more  than 
ever. 

The  nurse  at  first  engaged  had  been  discharged. 
He  did  not  need  a  nurse,  the  doctor  said,  and  her 
presence  seemed  to  fret  and  distress  him.  It  had 
simmered  down  then  to  the  doctor  and  Sister  Sue  as 
being  his  only  visitors,  day  in  and  day  out.  As  yet  he 
had  not  appeared  to  care  to  go  downstairs,  nor  had 
his  daughter  tried  to  have  him  go.  His  meals  she 
brought  in  herself  on  the  tray  left  by  Mary  three 
times  a  day  just  outside  his  door. 

Truth  to  tell,  as  matters  were,  Sister  Sue  was  quite 
content  to  have  her  father  stay  where  he  was.  Be- 


52  SISTER  SUE 

yond  the  fact  of  his  deplorable  condition,  she  did  not 
worry  about  him  then,  for  she  knew  where  he  was. 
Moreover,  if  he  were  downstairs,  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  keep  some  of  the  confusion  and  horror  from 
penetrating  even  his  befogged  brain.  As  it  was,  up- 
stairs he  was  content;  and  in  a  way  his  room  made 
a  sort  of  refuge  to  fly  to  when  conditions  down- 
stairs became  particularly  unbearable.  Sad  and 
heart-breaking  though  it  was  to  see  him  in  that  con- 
dition, yet  in  his  placid  presence  his  sorely  tried  daugh- 
ter could  find  at  least  a  few  minutes'  respite  from 
problems  that  threatened  to  be  too  great  for  her  to 
solve. 

Beset  and  besieged  and  importuned  on  all  sides, 
Sister  Sue  did  surely  need  some  refuge.  She  won- 
dered sometimes  if  she  were  going  to  have  sufficient 
strength  to  go  through  it.  If  it  had  not  been  for  her 
piano,  she  thought  she  could  not,  indeed,  have  en- 
dured it.  But  she  could  still  find  each  day  in  her 
beloved  keyboard  the  means  to  vent  her  weariness, 
worry,  and  utter  dejection.  And  never  yet  thus  far 
had  there  failed  to  creep  into  the  music,  before  she 
rose  from  the  piano,  a  triumphant  strain  that  told 
that  the  player  had  found  somewhere  a  new  hope  and 
a  new  courage  to  take  up  the  next  day's  burdens. 

Sometimes  for  a  few  minutes  during  the  day,  and 
nearly  always  in  the  evening,  Sister  Sue  found  time 
to  snatch  these  few  precious  moments  at  the  piano. 
The  members  of  her  household  and  Martin  Kent, 
knowing  her  so  well,  were  not  surprised  at  this  seem- 
ing waste  of  time  when  so  many  important  matters 


LAST  THINGS  53 

awaited  her  attention.  But  Daniel  Loring,  finding 
her  at  the  piano,  and  noticing  particularly  the  trip- 
ping melodies  and  sonorous  chords,  and  not  recog- 
nizing them  as  the  evidence  of  a  hard- won  victory, 
wondered  within  him  sometimes :  "How  in  the  dickens 
can  she  do  it?" 

Daniel  Loring  came  nearly  every  day  now.  He  had 
been  appointed  conservator  of  the  estate  by  the  Pro- 
bate Court.  There  was  much  to  be  done;  there  were 
many  matters  to  be  settled. 

It  had  been  ten  weeks  since  the  failure  and  the 
house  was  already  sold.  Many  of  the  expensive  fur- 
nishings had  gone  also  at  private  sales.  There  was 
to  be  an  auction  later  for  the  few  things  remaining. 
Even  the  master  of  the  house  upstairs  was  sorting  out 
his  pictures  on  a  solid  mahogany  table  which  was 
already  the  property  of  his  neighbor  down  the  Ave- 
nue, whose  generous  consideration  for  his  old  friend 
was  leaving  it  where  it  was  —  until  such  time  as  its 
former  owner  should  take  his  scissors  and  picture 
books  to  Gilmoreville,  Vermont. 

The  beautiful  limousine  and  the  high-power  tour- 
ing car  had  been  among  the  first  of  their  possessions 
to  go,  though  May  freely  expressed  her  opinion  of 
the  short-sightedness  of  not  leaving  these  till  the  last 
when  she  and  Sister  Sue  particularly  needed  them  for 
all  their  good-bye  calls  and  parties.  (To  have  been 
strictly  accurate,  May  should  have  spoken  for  herself 
alone;  Sister  Sue  was  not  making  good-bye  calls  or 
attending  good-bye  parties.  But  May  was  not  always 
strictly  accurate  in  her  assertions.)  The  chauffeur, 


54  SISTER  SUE 

of  course,  had  gone,  and  Mary  was  to  go  when  the 
month  was  out.  Katy  was  still  there  and  would  go 
with  them  to  Gilmoreville. 

Martin  Kent  called  occasionally.  Toward  his 
fiancee  he  was  all  sympathy,  all  love,  all  tenderness. 
He  smoothed  her  hair  and  caressed  her  hands,  and 
said  what  a  wretched  shame  it  was  that  his  dear  lit- 
tle sweetheart  should  have  to  go  through  this  awful 
thing!  He  sent  her  flowers  and  candy;  but  when  she 
begged  him  to  advise  her  as  to  what  price  to  set  on 
the  library  furniture,  and  as  to  the  advisability  of 
certain  sales  recommended  by  Mr.  Loring,  he  threw 
his  hands  in  the  air  and  shook  his  head  vehemently, 
declaring  that  he  had  a  miserable  head  for  business 
and  that  he  had  n't  the  faintest  idea  what  to  tell  her 
to  do.  So  he  was  not  much  assistance  to  her  in  that 
way. 

She  had  told  him  at  the  very  first,  after  Cousin 
Abby's  letter  came,  that  of  course  all  idea  of  going 
on  with  her  music  must  be  abandoned  now,  as  it  was 
out  of  the  question  for  her  to  leave  her  father  at 
present.  He  had  sympathized  very  tenderly  with  her 
at  the  time,  and  had  bemoaned  the  cruel  fate  that 
tied  her  bright  spirit  to  sordid  affairs  of  everyday 
living.  He  had  said,  too,  how  thankful  he  was  that 
at  least  he  had  been  man  enough  at  the  last  to  urge 
her  to  develop  her  divine  gift,  and  that  whatever  hap- 
pened, he  would  have  the  blissful  consciousness  of 
knowing  that  it  was  not  through  his  selfishness  that 
she  was  being  kept  from  realizing  her  ambitions.  He 
spoke  beautifully  of  her  noble  self-sacrifice,  and  as- 


LAST  THINGS  55 

sured  her  that  Heaven's  richest  reward  would  be 
hers. 

Not  until  after  he  had  gone  that  evening,  however, 
did  it  occur  to  his  fiancee  that  he  had  not  said  any- 
thing about  her  renewing  her  pledge  to  marry  him  in 
July,  now  that  the  possibility  of  a  career  of  her  own 
must  be  abandoned. 

Alone,  in  the  dark,  she  flushed  hotly,  as  she  thought 
of  it. 

"Of  course,  I  could  marry  him,  I  suppose,"  she 
admitted  to  herself.  "He  was  coming  home  to  live 
with  us,  anyway.  But  —  well,  probably  he  did  n't 
want  to  trouble  me  now  with  talking  about  it.  He 
thought  I  had  enough  to  think  of,  as  it  is,"  she  as- 
sured herself  with  a  resoluteness  that  hinted  at  the 
necessity  of  placating  a  little  hurt  something  that 
still  questioned  within  her. 

As  the  days  passed,  Martin  Kent  still  apparently 
thought  best  not  to  "bother"  his  fiancee  with  plead- 
ings for  an  early  marriage.  At  all  events,  he  said 
nothing  about  her  former  promise  to  marry  him  in 
July,  though  he  was  yet  very  devoted  and  lover-like 
in  his  behavior.  If  the  girl  herself  noticed  this,  she 
gave  no  sign.  Her  attention,  apparently,  was  en- 
tirely taken  up  with  other  matters. 

And  Heaven  knew  there  were  plenty  of  such! 

Sister  Sue  had  hoped,  at  the  first,  to  keep  her 
piano.  But  it  was  a  fine  instrument  and  in  excellent 
condition ;  and  she  knew  that  it  must  go,  even  before 
Mr.  Loring  appeared  one  day  with  a  purchaser  who 
offered  a  price  quite  too  large  to  refuse.  Like  the  fur- 


56  SISTER  SUE 

niture  in  the  master's  bedroom,  however,  the  piano 
was  to  stay  until  the  family  themselves  were  ready  to 
go.  So  Sister  Sue  was  still  enabled  to  seek  its  comfort 
and  inspiration.  But  even  after  the  big  fat  man  with 
the  diamond  stick-pin  in  his  tie  had  drawn  the  check 
that  made  the  instrument  his,  sensitive  ears  might 
have  detected  in  the  notes  that  fell  from  Sister  Sue's 
fingers  a  tragic  undertone  of  longing  and  renuncia- 
tion in  even  the  most  triumphant  of  the  chords  and 
melodies. 

April  passed  and  May  came.  They  were  to  go  early 
in  June  immediately  upon  the  closing  of  the  exclu- 
sive private  schools  which  May  and  Gordon  at- 
tended. Downstairs  the  house  was  already  nearly 
empty.  Mary  had  gone,  and  only  Katy,  red-eyed 
and  gloomy,  full  of  prophecies  of  evil,  remained  in  the 
kitchen.  Gordon,  spending  every  spare  minute  out  of 
school  off  with  "the  boys,"  was  admittedly  trying  to 
get  in  all  the  pleasure  he  could  before  he  "buried  him- 
self for  life."  May,  almost  habitually  now  in  tears 
except  when  away  from  home,  was  saying  her  fare- 
wells in  one  grand  whirl  of  gayety,  willingly  chap- 
eroned by  Mrs.  Henderson.  John  Gilmore,  greatly 
improved  in  health,  but  not  in  mind,  was  getting 
restless  in  his  somewhat  restricted  quarters,  and  was 
importuning  his  daughter  Sue  as  to  when  he  could 
go  downstairs.  He  told  her  he  had  been  sick  quite 
as  long  as  he  wanted  to  be;  and  he  declared  that  he 
should  never  get  his  strength  back  until  he  got  out  of 
doors. 

Sister  Sue,  nearly  distracted  with  them  all,  was 


LAST  THINGS  57 

doing  "last  things"  too.  But  her  last  things  did  not 
consist  of  uproarious  frolics  off  with  the  boys,  nor  of 
tearful,  violet-scented  kisses  at  pink  teas.  They  con- 
sisted of  hurried  directions  as  to  packing  certain 
trunks  and  boxes  for  shipment  to  Gilmoreville,  and 
of  stoically  calm  last  looks  at  household  treasures 
being  borne  down  the  steps  on  the  shoulders  of  stal- 
wart men  to  the  great  vans  which  would  take  them  to 
the  homes  of  those  who  would,  in  days  to  come,  never 
cease  to  boast  of  the  bargains  they  got  "when  Gil- 
more  and  Glode  failed,  don't  you  know." 

True,  Sister  Sue  did  make  one  farewell  call.  Two 
days  before  they  started  for  Gilmoreville,  she  went  to 
see  Signer  Bartoni.  She  thanked  him  for  all  he  had 
done  for  her,  and  for  the  kind  encouragement  he  had 
given  her,  which  meant  to  her,  oh,  so  much  more 
than  she  could  ever  express  in  words.  Then,  with 
very  red  cheeks  and  very  bright  eyes,  she  told  him 
that  she  had  been  obliged,  of  course,  to  give  up 
all  idea  of  training  herself  for  a  concert  pianist  for 
the  present;  but  that  she  still  had  hopes  that  some 
day — 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence;  and  Signer  Bar- 
toni, reading  aright  the  little  choke  that  broke  the 
sentence  off  short,  made  haste  to  assure  her  that  yes, 
yes,  he  was  very  sure  she  would  go  back  to  her  music 
with  renewed  vigor  and  strength;  that  it  would  be  a 
"pi-tee"  and  a  "cr-rime"  not  to. 

Sister  Sue  went  home  then.  Her  cheeks  were  still 
red  and  her  eyes  were  still  bright  until  she  had 
boarded  the  crowded  trolley  car  at  the  corner  of  the 


58  SISTER  SUE 

street.  There,  clinging  to  the  strap,  and  swaying 
with  the  motion  of  the  car,  she  relaxed  suddenly,  as 
if  somewhere  had  snapped  a  taut  cord.  The  red  fled 
from  her  cheeks  and  the  sparkle  from  her  eyes.  She 
was  white-faced  and  shaking  when  she  reached  home, 
and  her  hands  and  feet  were  cold  and  numb. 

In  her  own  room,  ten  minutes  later,  she  was  putting 
away  in  her  trunk  a  photograph  and  several  clippings 
cut  from  magazines  and  newspapers.  The  photograph 
was  the  likeness  of  America's  greatest  woman  pian- 
ist —  a  being  whom  Sister  Sue  had  always  worshiped 
(as  at  a  shrine),  ever  since  hearing  her  play  two  years 
before.  The  clippings  were  every  scrap  and  bit  of  in- 
formation that  she  had  been  able  to  gather  concern- 
ing the  object  of  her  adoration.  The  picture  had  oc- 
cupied an  honored  position  upon  her  dressing-table 
and  the  clippings  had  been  within  easy  reach  of  her 
hand  for  frequent  perusal.  She  put  them  all  now  in 
the  very  bottom  of  her  trunk. 

Martin  Kent  called  that  evening.  On  a  trunk  and 
a  packing-box  they  sat  before  the  fire  in  the  library. 
As  usual  they  were  alone. 

"More  farewells,  I  suppose  —  your  sister  and  Gor- 
don," smiled  the  man,  asking  with  a  gesture  if  he 
might  smoke. 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Henderson  called  for  May  in  the  car. 
It's  a  theater  and  supper  to-night,  I  believe."  Sister 
Sue  looked  a  little  sober.  "Mrs.  Henderson  has  been 
very  kind,  and  it's  wonderful  that  May  has  had  this 
chance.  Of  course  I  have  been  good  for  nothing  as 
a  chaperon  for  weeks  past.  The  only  trouble  is,  I'm 


LAST  THINGS  59 

afraid  it 's  going  to  be  all  the  harder  —  when  the  end 
comes." 

"You  mean  Gilmoreville?" 

"Yes." 

The  man  blew  a  smoke-ring,  then  clasped  his  knee 
with  both  arms. 

"You've  never  told  me.  What's  it  like  —  Gil- 
moreville?" he  asked  then. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have.    Don't  you  remember?   I  told 
you  it  would  be  a  lovely  place  to  get  copy;  that  is  - 
She  stopped  abruptly,  a  bright  color  flaming  to  the 
roots  of  her  hair  as  she  threw  a  swift  sideways  glance 
into  the  man's  face. 

But  Martin  Kent  did  not  seem  to  be  noticing. 

"It's  just  a  little  country  town,  then,"  he  com- 
mented indifferently,  his  eyes  on  another  smoke- 
ring. 

"Yes." 

"That  will  be  hard  for  people  who  like  the  gay 
white  way  and  pink  teas  —  Gordon  and  your  sister 
May,  for  instance.  And  —  how  about  you,  dear? " 
He  turned  now,  and  looked  into  her  face. 

"Oh,  I  shall  survive,  I  fancy."  Her  eyes  were 
carefully  averted.  "I  shall  be  —  busy"  —  her  voice 
was  not  quite  steady  —  "and  there's  nothing  like 
work  to  take  up  one's  mind,  you  know." 

"By  George,  it's  a  beastly  shame!"  stormed  the 
man  vehemently.  "To  bury  you  like  that  in  a 
measly  little  country  town!  How  big  is  the  place, 
>Miyway?" 

"Oh,  three  or  four  thousand,  I  suppose." 


60  SISTER  SUE 

"You've  been  there  before,  you  said,  I  believe." 

"Oh,  yes,  many  times,  especially  when  we  were 
children.  We  rather  liked  it  then,  for  a  little  while  in 
the  summer.  We  have  n't  been  so  often  of  late  years, 
nor  stayed  so  long.  But  Father  always  liked  it.  I  'm 
glad  of  that.  He  '11  be  more  contented  there,  I  hope. 
He's  getting  terribly  restless  here.  Oh,  Martin,  you 
don't  know  how  I  dread  it  to-morrow,  taking  him 
down  through  the  halls.  You  see,  he 's  just  been  in  his 
little  suite  upstairs,  and  he  does  n't  know  a  thing  of 
what's  been  done  —  outside." 

"What  does  the  doctor  say?" 

"Why,  he  says  we've  got  to  take  him,  and,  any- 
way, he  thinks  he'll  be  all  right.  But  he  and  Mr. 
Loring  are  going  to  be  in  the  library  within  call,  so 
if  I  should  need  them,  but  they  think  it's  better  to 
keep  out  of  sight  unless  I  do.  The  doctor  says  Father 
may  question  a  little,  and  look  worried  and  con- 
fused; but  —  oh,  Martin,  Martin,  seems  as  if  I  —  I 
just  could  n't  have  it !  Father  —  Father  —  like  that ! " 
Her  voice  choked  into  a  sob  and  she  put  both  hands 
to  her  eyes. 

"Darling,  don't!"  With  a  jerk  the  man  tossed  his 
cigar  into  the  fire  and  crowded  himself  on  to  the  pack- 
ing-case at  her  side.  Then,  with  all  his  skill  and  magic 
of  words,  he  soothed  and  comforted  her  until  he  had 
her  laughing  through  her  tears.  Then,  as  if  to  divert 
her  mind  from  her  father,  he  went  back  to  his  ques- 
tions concerning  Gilmoreville. 

"How  about  the  house?  Is  that  comfortable?" 
"Yes,  oh,  yes,  in  away.  Of  course  it's  just  a  great 


LAST  THINGS  61 

big  old-fashioned  country  house  with  stoves  and  fire- 
places, though." 

"It's  all  furnished?" 

"Oh,  yes,  after  a  fashion.  We're  not  taking  any 
furniture  from  here.  We  did  n't  really  need  to.  Be- 
sides, Mr.  Loring  said  we  'd  better  not.  Everything 
here  had  to  be  sold  —  to  help  out,  you  know." 

"Even  the  piano!  That  was  the  toughest  thing  of 
all,  dear.  But  there's  one  up  there,  of  course.  You 
would  n't  have  left  yourself  without  anything!" 

She  gave  a  faint  smile. 

"Oh,  yes,  there's  one  there,"  she  admitted,  "after  a 
fashion,  like  the  rest  of  the  things.  It's  an  old  square 
one  with  octagon  legs.  It  sounds  a  good  deal  like  a 
tinkling  cymbal,  if  you  know  what  that  is.  I  don't. 
But  it  sounds  as  if  it  sounded  like  that!  Still,  it'll  be 
better  than  nothing,  I  suppose." 

"Is  the  house  open?  Will  there  be  any  one  there 
to  —  to  meet  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  the  Prestons.  They're  the  people  who 
have  lived  there  all  these  years  and  kept  it  in  good 
order.  They  have  three  rooms  for  their  own,  and 
we  '11  let  them  stay,  I  imagine.  They  had  their  rent 
for  looking  after  the  place  a  little.  Of  course,  when 
we  were  there,  or  when  they  did  extra  things  for  us, 
Father  paid  them  for  it.  But  we  can't  pay  them  any- 
thing now,  of  course.  It'll  be  just  what  little  odd 
jobs  they  do  for  their  rent." 

"But  you'll  keep  them  there?" 

"Mercy,  yes!  Why,  they've  always  been  there, 
Martin.  I  should  as  soon  think  of  trying  to  move  one 


62  SISTER  SUE 

of  the  big  trees  in  the  lawn,"  smiled  the  girl.  "Be- 
sides, I  don't  want  to.  Mrs.  Preston  is  a  dear.  We 
children  always  adored  her.  She 's  quite  a  character, 
too.  You  may  get  — "  For  some  unapparent  reason 
the  girl  stopped  short,  a  sudden  color  flooding  her 
face.  Then  at  once  she  hurried  on  with  a  haste  that 
was  almost  precipitate.  "You  may  get  —  get  quite 
an  idea  of  what  she  is  when  I  tell  you  that  Granny 
Preston  is  quite  a  personage  in  Gilmoreville.  She 
knows  everything  that  — " 

With  an  impatient  gesture  Martin  Kent  turned 
upon  her  almost  savagely. 

"A  personage,  indeed!"  he  interrupted.  "And 
you  have  to  endure  that!  A  Granny  Preston,  who 
knows  everything!  Sue,  is  there  any  one  in  that 
infernal  town  —  er  —  fit  to  be  —  your  associate?" 

The  girl  laughed  merrily;  but  almost  instantly  her 
face  sobered  and  she  looked  very  grave,  with  a  tinge 
of  anger  and  resentment  in  her  eyes.  But  there  was 
still  another  change  the  next  moment  when  she  spoke. 
Her  eyes  were  twinkling  now. 

"Oh,  yes;  yes,  indeed,  Martin.  We  live  right  next 
to  the  Kendalls;  and  the  Kendalls  have  two  motor 
cars  and  use  finger  bowls  every  day  —  real  common, 
you  know.  And  there  are  the  Grays  —  he 's  worth  at 
least  ten  thousand  dollars;  and  the  Whipples  keep  a 
maid,  and  have  a  real  show  place  with  a  porte-cochere 
that  everybody  who  comes  to  Gilmoreville  is  always 
taken  to  see.  And  the  Sargents  —  they  have  a  man 
come  two  days  a  week  to  mow  the  lawn,  and  — " 

"Sue!" 


LAST  THINGS  63 

The  girl  laughed  roguishly.  Then  again  her  face 
grew  sober,  but  there  was  no  anger  or  resentment  in 
her  eyes  now. 

"Yes,  I  know  I  was  making  fun  that  time;  but  I 
was  only  giving  you  a  few  of  the  choicest  morsels  in 
some  of  Mrs.  Preston's  quarterly  letters  to  Father. 
Seriously,  dear,  there  are  some  very  charming  people 
in  Gilmoreville,  and  some  otherwise,  of  course.  Like 
any  town  of  its  size,  it  has  its  would-be  smart  set, 
which  I  imagine  will  have  very  little  to  do  with  us  — 
now.  But  there  are  clubs  and  churches,  and  a  few 
families  of  real  culture  and  education,  besides  many 
of  genuine  worth  with  kind  hearts  and  level  heads, 
even  if  their  grammar  and  their  manners  are  not 
above  reproach." 

"How  about  those  people  next  door?  —  what  did 
you  call  them?" 

"With  the  finger  bowls?"  smiled  Sister  Sue.  "The 
Kendalls.  He's  the  richest  man  in  town,  I  suppose. 
He  makes  shoes.  She's  a  good  woman,  a  bit  spoiled, 
perhaps,  by  her  money  —  they  have  n't  always  had 
it.  They  have  a  son  who  is  getting  really  famous,  I 
hear,  as  a  violinist." 

"Not  Donald  Kendall?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"I  did  once.  We  used  to  play  together  as  children 
a  little.  But  he  was  older  than  we  were,  and,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  rather  domineering  and  disagree- 
able. We  never  got  on  very  well  together.  I  have  n't 
seen  him  for  years  —  eight  or  nine,  I  guess.  He  has 


64  SISTER  SUE 

not  been  there  when  we  have  lately  —  and  we  have 
not  been  there  a  great  deal." 

"Hm-m,"  commented  the  man.  "I  heard  him 
once.  Great  player ! " 

"So  I  understand,  and  —  oh,  he's  not  the  only 
celebrity  that  hails  from  Gilmoreville,  let  me  tell 
you!  There's  Kate  Farnum,  the  novelist,  and  Viola 
Sanderson,  the  singer,  and  Cy  Bellows,  and  — " 

"Not  the  real  Cy,  the  ball-player?" 

"Surely!  I  see  you  are  impressed  now!"  Her  eyes 
were  merry  again.  "But  you  must  n't  be  too  im- 
pressed. Please  remember  that  these  celebrated  per- 
sonages are  not  there  now.  They  won't  be  dropping  in 
to  breakfast  every  day.  They  just  were  there,  once 
—  born  there.  There 's  just  Granny  Preston  there 
now.  She  did  n't  go  away,  you  know,"  finished  Sister 
Sue,  with  an  emphasis  that  was  as  merry  as  it  was 
unmistakable. 

With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  Martin  Kent  got 
abruptly  to  his  feet. 

"I'm  glad  your  courage  is  so  good,"  he  observed 
dryly,  a  curious  irritation  in  voice  and  manner. 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  gone;  and  though  his 
kiss  at  parting  had  been  tender,  and  his  words  very 
loving,  there  was  still  underneath  it  all  that  same 
curious  irritation. 


CHAPTER  V 

GILMOREVILLE 

IT  was  little  more  than  a  half-day's  journey  to  Gil- 
moreville  from  Boston,  and  Sister  Sue  knew  that  she 
had  been  hoping  that  Martin  Kent  would  make  it 
with  them.  She  was  dreading  the  trip  especially  for 
her  father,  and  she  was  fearing  what  he  might  do  on 
the  journey.  She  felt  that  if  she  had  a  strong  man 
like  Martin  with  her,  she  would  be  much  easier  in  her 
mind.  But  she  did  not  like  to  ask  him  to  go,  especially 
in  the  face  of  his  very  obvious  avoidance  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  sick  man,  even  in  the  Gilmores'  own  home. 

When  the  day  came  finally  for  the  start,  Sister  Sue 
was  still  hoping  against  hope  that  he  would  go  with 
them.  Nor  did  she  quite  give  up  till  his  telephone 
message  came  that  morning  to  the  effect  that  he 
would  meet  them  at  the  station  and  see  them  off. 
She  knew  then  that  upon  her  own  shoulders  must 
rest  the  entire  responsibility  of  the  trip. 

Even  from  the  very  beginning  she  found  that  she 
stood  alone;  for  as  soon  as  the  doctor  and  Mr.  Loring 
had  disappeared  into  the  library,  May  and  Gordon 
hurried  out  to  the  waiting  cab,  May  calling  back: 

"Now  wait  till  we're  inside  before  you  get  Father. 
We  don't  want  to  be  there  when  he  comes  down!" 

At  her  words,  Katy,  standing  in  the  hall  with  the 
remaining  bags,  picked  up  a  suitcase  in  each  hand  and 
hurried  after  the  two  young  people. 


66  SISTER  SUE 

Behind  them  Sister  Sue,  alone  on  the  stairway,  bit 
her  lip  and  forced  back  a  choking  something  in  her 
throat.  Then,  with  chin  up,  she  turned  and  began 
to  ascend  the  stairs.  But  her  feet  lagged,  and  it  was 
plainly  only  sheer  will  power  that  carried  them  up  at 
all. 

On  all  sides  were  bare  walls,  bare  windows,  bare 
floors;  and  Sister  Sue  saw  them,  and  shivered. 

Just  what  would  be  the  effect  on  her  father  when  he 
should  step  across  the  threshold  of  his  chamber  into 
—  this?  Would  he  pass  through  unnoticing,  or  would 
the  shock  of  the  echoing  bareness  snap  the  taut 
something  that  held  his  brain  in  leash  and  restore 
memory  and  understanding?  And  if  it  did,  would  the 
revelation  mean  hours,  days,  months,  even  years 
of  full  consciousness  of  the  catastrophe,  or  would  it 
mean  one  blinding  flash  of  anguish  to  be  succeeded 
immediately  by  blank  oblivion? 

To  Sister  Sue,  holding  her  breath  outside  her 
father's  door,  the  one  seemed  hardly  less  terrible  than 
the  other. 

At  that  moment  from  the  room  beyond  came  the 
sound  of  a  clock's  striking  nine;  and  with  a  little 
choking  sob  the  girl  pulled  a  key  from  the  pocket 
of  her  dress  and  hurriedly  fitted  it  into  the  lock;  for 
some  days  now  John  Gilmore  had  been  very  literally 
a  prisoner,  his  daughter  not  daring  to  trust  his  rapidly 
increaging  activity  to  the  unrestricted  freedom  of  an 
unlocked  door. 

"Well,  Father,  are  you  all  ready?  "  she  called  gayly. 
"The  car  is  here.  You  know  I  said  I'd  be  up  at  nine 


GILMOREVILLE  67 

o'clock."  Then  she  stopped  and  caught  her  breath 
with  a  little  half-suppressed  cry,  so  fine  and  splendid 
and  handsome  did  the  man  look,  standing  by  the 
table  facing  her. 

John  Gilmore,  carefully  groomed  and  fully  dressed, 
even  to  hat,  top  coat,  and  cane,  looked  so  near  like 
the  John  Gilmore  of  Gilmore  and  Glode,  that  she 
almost  expected  him  to  say  peremptorily: 

"Tell  Jackson  I'll  want  the  car  right  away,  please, 
and  telephone  Loring  that  I  Ve  started,  and  shall  ex- 
pect him  to  meet  me  at  the  First  National  in  half  an 
hour." 

But  the  tall,  distinguished-looking  man  standing  by 
the  table  did  not  say  that.  He  opened  his  lips  —  and 
with  his  first  words  the  illusion  of  the  prosperous, 
prominent  banker,  was  quite  gone. 

"Sue,  I  can't  find  my  pictures,  not  a  single  one  of 
them.  I  can't  go  without  my  pictures!"  he  fretted. 
"Where  are  they,  Sue?" 

The  girl  drew  a  long  breath. 

"They're  quite  safe,  dear.  I  packed  them  myself 
last  night.  Don't  you  remember?  I  told  you.  Come, 
we  're  all  ready.  The  trunks  went  last  night  and  the 
bags  are  all  in  the  car.  And  we  have  a  beautiful  day 
to  start,"  she  chatted  on.  They  were  going  through 
the  doorway  into  that  bare  hall  now,  and  Sister  Sue, 
in  spite  of  her  blithe  voice,  was  trembling  with  the 
fear  of  the  next  two  minutes,  her  eyes  shrinking  from 
what  they  dreaded  to  see,  yet  refusing  to  leave  the 
man's  face.  "May  and  Gordon  are  already  in  the 
car,  waiting.  Come,  Father,  we  don't  want  to  lose 


68  SISTER  SUE 

that  train.  You  know  trains  don't  wait  for  people, 
and — " 

"Why,  Sue!"  At  the  head  of  the  stairs  the  man 
had  come  to  a  full  stop  in  spite  of  the  urge  of  the 
girl's  arm. 

From  sheer  inability  to  make  her  dry  lips  articulate 
the  rest  of  her  sentence,  Sister  Sue  stopped  and  waited 
for  him  to  speak. 

"Why,  Sue,  what  is  the  matter  here?  Things  look 
—  queer."  He  had  the  groping  air  of  one  trying  to 
peer  through  the  dark  to  find  the  outlines  of  some 
familiar  object. 

"Yes,  I  know,  dear;  but,  come,  Father  —  hurry. 
We  don't  want  to  lose  that  train,  you  know!"  She 
pulled  gently  at  his  arm. 

In  obedience  he  began  to  descend  the  stairs  slowly, 
his  groping  eyes  still  peering  into  the  hall  below. 

"But,  they're  all  gone,  Sue  —  everything!" 

"  Yes,  dear,  and  we  're  going,  too,  you  know.  We  're 
going  to  Gilmoreville." 

"Oh,  yes  —  Gilmoreville."  They  were  in  the 
lower  hall  now.  The  door  to  the  library,  behind  which 
she  knew  were  the  two  listening  men,  was  closed. 
So,  too,  was  the  door  to  the  drawing-room  on  the 
other  side.  Sister  Sue  had  seen  to  that.  The  front 
door  lay  before  them,  wide  open,  inviting  them.  "Oh, 
yes,  Gilmoreville,"  repeated  the  man,  his  eyes  still 
troubled,  questioning,  turning  from  side  to  side. 

"You  wanted  to  go  there,  you  know,"  Sister  Sue 
reminded  him  cheerily.  They  were  safely  by  the  two 
closed  doors  that  she  had  most  feared  now. 


GILMOREVILLE  69 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,  I  like  Gilmoreville.  But  you  took 
the  pictures?"  His  eyes  sought  her  face  fearfully. 

"Yes,  every  one  of  them.  And  I  bought  two  lovely 
new  books  of  them  yesterday  downtown,  too.  You  '11 
like  those,  I'm  sure." 

They  were  at  the  outer  door.  In  a  moment  they 
were  descending  the  steps.  On  the  sidewalk  John  Gil- 
more  paused  again,  his  eyes  on  the  cab  and  its  driver. 

"That's  not  Jackson.   Is  that  our  car?" 

"No,  but  it's  all  right.  Step  right  in,  Father. 
We've  got  to  hurry,  you  know,  for  that  train!" 

And  John  Gilmore  stepped  in.  And  as  his  foot 
touched  the  running-board  the  girl  behind  him  turned 
with  a  smile  and  a  wave  of  the  hand  toward  the  two 
men  watching  from  the  library  window. 

The  men  waved  back  vigorously  and  nodded  their 
heads  in  obvious  congratulation.  They  caught  her 
answering  nod  and  the  flash  of  her  smile;  but  they 
could  not  hear  her  relieved  sigh  as  she  stepped  in 
after  her  father  and  the  door  closed  behind  her. 

In  the  cab  May  whispered  an  excited  question: 

"How  was  he?  Was  he  all  right?" 

"Yes,  yes  —  hush!  Talk  about  the  weather,  the 
scenery  —  anything;  but  don't  let  him  talk,"  begged 
Sister  Sue. 

"I  saw  the  doctor  and  Mr.  Loring  watching  from 
the  window,"  whispered  Gordon.  "I  s'pose  they'll 
—  'tend  to  things." 

"Yes,  everything.  Now  let's  forget  it  all  —  back 
there,"  cried  Sister  Sue,  her  anxious  eyes  still  search- 
ing her  father's  face. 


70  SISTER  SUE 

It  was  not  a  long  trip  to  the  station  and  it  proved 
to  be  an  uneventful  one.  With  calm  dignity  John 
Gilmore  sat  back  in  his  seat,  commenting  pleasantly 
on  the  various  sights  from  the  window,  much  to  the 
very  plain  relief  of  his  three  children. 

In  the  station  they  found  Martin  Kent  awaiting 
them.  He  was  very  kind.  He  asked  if  they  had  their 
tickets  and  he  arranged  about  their  baggage.  He 
bought  flowers,  candy,  and  books;  and  he  told  Sister 
Sue  that  her  father  was  looking  finely;  and  he  said 
what  a  handsome  man  he  was,  to  be  sure,  and  what  a 
pity  it  was  that  he  should  have  gone  to  pieces  like 
that!  But  he  very  carefully  avoided  speaking  to  the 
man  himself.  He  told  May,  in  a  low  voice,  that  it 
would  kill  him  if  he  had  to  be  with  him  the  way  Sister 
Sue  was.  And  May  said,  yes,  it  would  her,  too;  and 
she  did  n't  see  how  Sister  Sue  stood  it.  He  went  with 
them  into  the  car  and  piled  up  the  candy  and  the 
books  and  the  flowers  all  around  them,  and  told  them 
he  hoped  they  'd  have  a  very  pleasant  journey. 

It  was  left  for  May  to  say,  as  he  turned  away: 

"Come  up  soon,  Martin,  please!  We  shall  just  die 
up  there  alone  with  nobody!  You  will  come?" 

"Of  course  I'll  come,"  he  nodded  back  at  her. 
"Now  take  good  care  of  your  sister  Sue,  for  me,"  he 
finished,  with  a  flashing  smile  which  included  both 
the  girls. 

"May,  how  could  you  ask  him  to  do  that?"  re- 
monstrated Sister  Sue,  her  face  scarlet. 

"Why,  what  an  idea!  Of  course  I'd  ask  him  to 
come  up!  Why  not?" 


GILMOREVILLE  71 

"But,  May,  he  has  n't  said  a  word  about  coming  — 
not  a  word!" 

"What  if  he  has  n't?"  retorted  May  aggrievedly. 
"Of  course  he  doesn't  want  to  come!  Who  would 
want  to  come  to  a  stupid  place  like  that?  But  I  don't 
care  if  he  does  n't.  He  's  got  to!  Is  n't  he  engaged  to 
you?" 

"May!" 

"Well,  I  don't  care.  It's  no  more  than  fair  that  he 
should  come  up  and  help  us  bear  it  part  of  the  time." 

"Oh,  May!"  objected  Sister  Sue  again,  her  face 
still  scarlet.  "As  if  I  want  any  man  to  do  anything 
for  me  he  does  n't  want  to  do!" 

But  May  only  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders  and 
settled  herself  more  comfortably  hi  her  seat. 

It  was  Gordon's  turn  then. 

"But  I  thought  you  two  were  going  to  be  married 
in  July." 

"Oh,  no,  not  now  —  not  at  present,"  declared 
Sister  Sue  hurriedly,  but  with  a  very  bright  smile. 
Then,  a  little  abruptly,  she  turned  her  attention  to  her 
father,  to  make  sure  that  he  was  comfortable  and 
contented. 

On  the  whole,  the  journey  to  Gilmoreville  was  ac- 
complished with  less  trouble  than  Sister  Sue  had 
feared  that  it  would  be.  The  shifting  panorama  out 
the  window  sufficiently  occupied  John  Gilmore's  at- 
tention for  more  than  half  the  way.  After  that  he 
dozed  fitfully  in  his  chair,  and  at  no  time  did  he  give 
any  sort  of  trouble. 

Gordon  read,  and  spent  more  of  his  time  in  the 


72  SISTER  SUE 

smoking-car  than  was  quite  pleasing  to  his  sister  Sue. 
May  also  read  for  a  while;  but  as  time  passed  she 
grew  restless;  and,  after  an  apprehensive  glance  at 
her  father,  she  began  to  talk  to  her  sister. 

"Will  anybody  meet  us?" 

"Mr.  Preston,  I  think.  I  told  him  to  be  there.  I 
may  want  some  help  —  about  Father,  you  know." 

May  drew  a  prodigious  sigh. 

"I  suppose  we'll  have  to  ride  in  that  awful  bus." 

"I  suppose  we  shall." 

"Horrid,  bumpy  thing!  Sue,  it  just  seems  as  if  I 
could  n't  do  it!" 

"I  know  it;  but  —  we've  got  to  do  it,  May.  We've 
got  to  do  —  a  lot  of  things,  I  'm  afraid,  that  it  will 
seem  as  if  we  could  n't  do." 

"Have  n't  we  got  any  money?" 

"Very  little.  Mr.  Loring's  coming  to  see  us  after 
everything's  all  settled  up  and  tell  us  how  much  we 
have  got." 

"We've  got  that  mining  stock  —  we  three  chil- 
dren. Is  n't  that  worth  anything?'' 

Sister  Sue  made  a  wry  face. 

"About  two  cents  on  a  dollar,  Mr.  Loring  says." 

"Why,  how  perfectly  horrid!  What  did  Father 
buy  it  for,  anyway?  " 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure."  Sister  Sue  spoke  a  little 
wearily,  her  eyes  out  the  window.  "He  thought  it 
was  worth  something,  I  suppose,  or  would  be,  some- 
time. Mr.  Loring  says  it  may  be  even  now.  It 's 
possible,  but  not  probable.  So  I  would  n't  count  on 
that  if  I  were  you." 


GILMOREVILLE  73 

"But  what  are  we  going  to  do?"  demanded  May. 

There  was  no  answer.  Sister  Sue,  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  her  own  thoughts,  was  still  looking  out  the 
window. 

For  another  minute  the  younger  girl  fidgeted  in 
her  seat;  then  she  began  to  talk  again. 

"What '11  you  wager  half  of  Gilmoreville  isn't  at 
the  station  to  meet  us?  If  Granny  Preston  knows 
when  we're  coming,  the  whole  town  does.  That's 
certain.  And  they'll  come  and  stare,  and  stare,  just 
as  they  do  when  the  circus  conies  to  town." 

"May!"  Sister  Sue's  attention  was  manifestly 
captured  now. 

"Well,  they  will.  You  know  they  will.  We  were 
rich ;  now  we  're  poor.  Something  awful 's  the  matter 
with  Father.  He  looks  like  a  man;  he  acts  like  a  child. 
They  want  to  see  him.  They  want  to  see  us.  They 
want  to  find  out  how  we  take  it." 

"Oh,  May!"  remonstrated  Sister  Sue  feebly. 

"Well,  they  do.  Funny  how  folks  like  that  will 
stand  around  and  gloat  over  anybody,  isn't  it?" 

"Why,  May,  they  don't  gloat,"  disputed  Sister 
Sue.  "They  will  be  —  be  sorry  for  —  for  Father,  I 
know." 

May  laughed  a  bit  tauntingly. 

"You  could  n't  say  it,  could  you?"  she  challenged. 
"You  know  they  won't  be  sorry  for  us  —  oh,  they 
may  be  sorry  for  Father,  in  that  horrid,  pitying  way 
that  makes  you  want  to  shake  them !  But  they  won't 
be  sorry  for  us.  They  '11  say  they  are,  of  course;  but  all 
the  while  they'll  be  thinking  inside  of  themselves: 


74  SISTER  SUE 

*Ah,  ha!  Ah,  ha!  Now  I  guess  you'll  see  how  good  it 
is  to  be  poor,  yourself! ' ' 

"Oh,  May,  don't!"  remonstrated  Sister  Sue  again 
feebly.  But  May  was  not  to  be  so  easily  silenced. 
With  only  an  imperturbable  shrug,  she  kept  right  on 
speaking: 

"  Can't  you  see  Mrs.  Whipple  rush  up  to  us  and  say, 
'Oh,  dear  Miss  Gilmore,  how  shocked  and  grieved  we 
all  are  for  you!'  and  then  put  up  that  wonderful 
lorgnette  of  hers  and  make  sure  whether  it  is  our  last 
year's  suits  turned  and  dyed?  Can't  you?  I  can! 
And  I  can  see  Delia  Gray  roll  her  eyes  to  the  sky,  and 
moan,  'Oh,  you  poor  dear  things!  How  are  you  ever 
going  to  live  through  it!'  and  then  call  that  red- 
haired,  homely  daughter  of  hers  away  quick,  for  fear 
she'll  look  at  Gordon,  who  'has  n't  a  cent  now,  my 
dear,  not  a  cent!" 

"Oh,  May,  May,  what  a  child  you  are!"  cried 
Sister  Sue;  but  she  was  laughing  now. 

May  was  not  laughing.  The  fretful  frown  on  her 
face  carried  nothing  but  vexation  and  disgust. 

"Oh,  of  course  lots  of  them  won't  say  anything; 
they'll  just  stand  off  and  stare,  and  not  even  take  the 
trouble  to  look  the  other  way,  either,  when  we  catch 
them  at  it.  And  the  children  will  point  their  fingers 
at  Father  and  whisper  those  things  that  begin  with 
'Do  you  know,  they  say  — '  And  I  just  hate  to  — " 
There  came  a  sharp  whistle  and  the  slowing-down  of 
the  train  as  they  approached  a  station.  "Why,  here 
we  are,  now!"  she  cried,  as  the  train  drew  up  to  the 
Gilmoreville  station  platform.  "And  there's  Mrs. 


GILMOREVILLE  75 

Whipple  with  her  lorgnette  and  a  whole  mob  with 
her.  What  did  I  tell  you?  And  there's  Mrs.  Kendall, 
too,"  she  added.  "Sister  Sue,  that  is  Mrs.  Kendall, 
is  n't  it?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Sister  Sue  was  too  busy 
getting  her  charge  into  his  hat  and  coat  to  reply  to 
any  questions  just  then. 

In  a  way  it  was  as  May  had  said  that  it  would  be. 
There  certainly  was  (for  Gilmoreville)  a  large  crowd 
at  the  station;  and  many  persons  did  stand  back  and 
stare  with  unabashed  eyes  that  refused  to  turn  aside. 
Mrs.  Whipple,  too,  did  rush  up  to  them;  and  she  said: 
"Oh,  my  poor  dear  Miss  Gilmore,  this  has  been  such  a 
shock  to  us!"  But  she  did  not,  as  far  as  May  could 
see,  give  their  suits  a  lorgnette  scrutiny. 

As  for  Mrs.  Gray,  she  was  not  there  at  all.  Neither 
did  they  ride  home  in  the  hated  bus.  Mrs.  Kendall 
had  her  big  seven-passenger  touring  car  there,  and 
she  said  there  was  room  for  them  all.  And  there  was. 

John  Gilmore  behaved  like  the  courteous  gentle- 
man that  he  was;  and  except  for  his  obvious  great 
weariness  and  his  two  questions  as  to  how  his  mother 
was  and  why  she  did  not  come  to  the  station  to  meet 
them,  he  gave  no  sign  that  he  was  not  very  much  as 
they  had  been  accustomed  to  seeing  him. 

Mr.  Preston  was  there,  a  little  frightened  and  nerv- 
ous, but  very  anxious  to  help  in  every  way  possible. 
He  was  left  in  charge  of  the  baggage,  looking  infinitely 
relieved  that  he  was  not  obliged  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  Mr.  John  Gilmore.  John  Gilmore  was,  in- 
deed, except  for  his  daughter  Sue's  ministrations, 


76  SISTER  SUE 

left  almost  entirely  to  himself.  Few  appeared  to  care 
to  speak  to  him;  atfd  even  Mrs.  Kendall,  aside  from 
greeting  him  in  the  first  place,  and  answering  his 
questions  concerning  his  mother  with  a  stammering 
"I  —  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  appeared  not  to  know 
that  he  was  present. 

Mrs.  Kendall  told  Sister  Sue  that  she  was  glad, 
she  was  sure,  that  she  could  bring  them  home;  and 
she  hoped  there  would  be  many  little  kindnesses  that 
she  could  show  them  in  the  days  to  come,  now  that 
they  had  lost  their  money  and  were  so  poor.  Sister 
Sue  smiled  and  said,  "  Thank  you,"  very  pleasantly, 
pretending  not  to  notice  that  May's  elbow  was  dig- 
ging into  her  side  with  unmistakable  meaning. 

At  the  great  square  house  with  its  white-pillared 
veranda,  known  as  the  Gilmore  place,  Mrs.  Preston 
greeted  them  with  a  cheery  welcome  and  an  open  fire 
in  the  living-room. 

'  'T  was  so  kind  of  cold  to-day  I  lit  up,"  she  ex- 
plained as  she  ushered  them  into  the  house.  "Any- 
how, I  knew  't  would  look  good." 

Mrs.  Preston  was  a  spry  little  old  lady,  seventy- 
five  years  young,  with  twinkling  blue  eyes,  and  a 
back  whose  uncompromising  straightness  hinted  at  a 
lifelong  scorn  of  rockers  and  easy-chairs.  There  was 
certainly  no  avoidance  of  Mr.  John  Gilmore  on  her 
part,  nor  the  least  hesitation  in  her  manner  as  she 
went  straight  to  him  and  shook  his  hand  heartily. 

John  Gilmore  peered  into  her  face  a  little  uncer- 
tainly. 

"How  do  you  do,  how  do  you  do?"  he  muttered. 


GILMOREVILLE  77 

"Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Preston,  how  do  you  do?"  he  went  on 
more  confidently.  "I'm  tired,  very  tired.  I'll  go  up 
to  my  room,  I  think,  as  soon  as  I've  seen  Mother. 
Where  is  she,  Mrs.  Preston?" 

Sister  Sue,  just  behind  her  father,  caught  her 
breath  and  held  it  suspended,  her  beseeching  eyes  on 
Mrs.  Preston's  face.  May  and  Gordon  gasped  audibly. 
But  Mrs.  Preston  —  Mrs.  Preston  never  so  much  as 
changed  color,  and  only  the  slightest  flickering  of  the 
lids  above  the  kindly  blue  eyes  showed  that  the  ques- 
tion was  anything  out  of  the  ordinary. 

"Your  mother?  Well,  I  can't  jest  say  where  she  is, 
Mr.  Gilmore.  But  I  would  n't  wait  for  her.  I  'd  come 
right  up  now  ter  your  room.  I've  got  it  all  slicked 
up  for  you,  nice  an'  pretty."  And  still  cheerily  Mrs. 
Preston  led  the  way  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DAYS  OF  ADJUSTMENT 

THEY  were  not  easy  —  those  first  days  of  adjustment 
to  new  conditions.  Accustomed  all  their  lives  to  the 
luxurious  appointments  of  a  house  fitted  out  by  an 
apparently  inexhaustible  purse,  it  was  not  easy  to 
conform  to  the  inconvenient  limitations  of  a  small- 
town house  built  before  the  days  of  electric  lights  and 
tiled  bathrooms.  Accustomed  also  to  rich  furnishings, 
harmonious  colors,  and  fine  pictures,  it  was  not  easy 
immediately  to  feel  at  home  in  rooms  where  hair- 
wreaths  and  framed  coffin-plates  were  considered  the 
acme  of  decorative  art. 

And  as  usual  the  burden  of  it  all  fell  upon  Sister 
Sue.  It  was  Sister  Sue  who  shamed  May  into  a 
measurably  serene  acceptance  of  the  loss  of  her  daily 
hot  water,  and  who  laughed  Gordon  into  learning 
the  way  to  stop  a  kerosene  lamp  from  smoking.  It 
was  Sister  Sue,  also,  who  bore  the  brunt  of  Katy's 
grumpy  fault-finding  about  a  kitchen  that  had  no  gas, 
no  electricity,  no  hot  water,  no  anything,  Katy  said, 
that  a  decent,  respectable  kitchen  and  pantry  ought 
to  have.  And  it  was,  of  course,  Sister  Sue  who  at- 
tended to  establishing  John  Gilmore  in  a  daily  routine 
that  would  not  unduly  tire  him,  but  that  would  still 
keep  him  comparatively  contented. 

Then,  too,  there  were  the  callers;  and  Sister  Sue 
must  see  those.  Her  father  certainly  could  not  and 


DAYS  OF  ADJUSTMENT  79 

her  sister  May  would  not.  There  were  the  few  who 
came  out  of  sincere  sympathy  and  would-be  helpful- 
ness; there  were  the  many  who  came  out  of  ill-con- 
cealed curiosity,  but  with  loud  lamentations  that 
were  even  harder  to  bear  patiently  than  were  the  semi- 
impertinent  questions.  And  Sister  Sue  saw  them  all, 
and  smiled,  and  looked  pleasant,  and  said  "Thank 
you,"  and  that  they  were  very  kind,  to  be  sure.  And 
not  even  May  knew  that  after  they  were  gone  Sister 
Sue  shut  herself  up  in  her  room  in  a  helpless  storm  of 
rage  and  tears. 

True,  they  knew  that  she  often  sought  the  piano 
after  such  calls,  and  they  were  pretty  sure  that  never 
had  the  timid  old  instrument  been  made  to  voice  such 
sentiments  as  it  poured  forth  now  under  Sister  Sue's 
overwrought  fingers.  But  they  were  used  to  that, 
even  if  the  piano  was  not.  Besides,  it  was  noticeable 
that  less  and  less  frequently  was  Sister  Sue  flying  even 
to  that  refuge.  But  if  May  and  Gordon  saw  this,  they 
did  not  mention  it,  even  to  each  other  —  perhaps  be- 
cause they  were  quite  too  busy  with  their  own  neces- 
sary adjustments  to  concern  themselves  overmuch 
with  those  of  anybody  else. 

Then  came  the  day  when  Katy  packed  her  bag  and 
said  that  she  could  n't  stand  it  another  day,  not  an- 
other minute ;  and  that  while  she  was  very  sorry  to  be 
leaving  without  a  proper  notice  and  all,  it  was  too 
much  to  expect  any  decent,  self-respecting  girl  to  put 
up  with  what  she'd  had  to  put  up  with  ever  since 
she'd  left  the  blessed  city  and  come  to  this  outland- 
ish, God-forsaken  country  town.  And  she  went. 


80  SISTER  SUE 

And  as  she  went,  she  slammed  the  door.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  that  Katy  had  slammed  doors  and 
banged  tin  pans.  Gordon  had  been  known  to  say 
more  than  once  that  doors  and  tin  pans  were  Katy's 
"piano"  —  and  he  always  said  it  with  a  mischievous 
wink  toward  his  sister  Sue.  And  so  to-day  when  the 
bang  of  the  slammed  door  reverberated  through  the 
house,  Gordon  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  observed: 

"I  think  I  hear  Katy's  piano." 

"But  what  are  we  going  to  do?"  gasped  May. 

It  was  Sister  Sue's  shoulders  that  shrugged  this  time. 

"Well,  I  know  some  things  I  shan't  have  to  do." 
Sister  Sue  was  laughing  a  little  grimly.  "I  shan't 
have  to  explain  and  apologize  every  time  I  go  into  the 
kitchen  because  we  have  n't  a  certain  kind  of  fork 
or  spoon  or  kettle  or  frying-pan  that  'everybody 
has  who  pretends  to  have  anything'!  And  I  shan't 
have  to  listen  to  constant  bemoanings  and  bewailings 
because  it's  all  so  different  from  what  it  used  to  be 
—  except  from  you  two  children,"  finished  Sister  Sue, 
a  little  severely. 

"But,  honestly,  Sister  Sue,  what  shall  we  do?" 
besought  May,  disdainfully  ignoring  the  challenging 
insinuation  of  the  last  remark. 

"Do?  We'll  do  ourselves,  of  course,"  retorted 
Sister  Sue  briskly.  "I  fancy  I  can  do  —  what  other 
women  do,  if  I  have  to.  Maybe  yet  I  —  I  '11  be  mak- 
ing a  great  name  for  myself  as  a  cook.  Who  knows? 
Anyhow,  I  ought  to  be  as  smart  as  —  Katy!"  she 
finished  in  a  voice  that  shook  a  little,  in  spite  of  its 
blithe  cheeriness. 


DAYS  OF  ADJUSTMENT  81 

"Bully  for  you!"  This  from  Gordon.  "I  say, 
Sister  Sue,  you  make  me  hungry  already.  What  are 
you  going  to  give  us  for  luncheon?" 

Sister  Sue  wagged  her  head  playfully. 

"I  don't  know,  sir  —  yet,"  she  retorted,  as  she 
turned  toward  the  door  leading  to  the  kitchen. 
"Come,  May,  it's  up  to  us  now." 

But  May  held  back. 

"Me!  Why,  Sue,  I  don't  know  a  thing  about  cook- 
ing, and  you  know  it." 

"Perhaps;  but  you  can  wash  dishes,"  pointed  out 
Sister  Sue,  still  briskly;  "and  I'll  warrant  Katy  left 
plenty  of  those.  Come  on!  I  hereby  dub  you  my 
chief  assistant." 

Thus  admonished,  May  went.  But  that  she  went 
crossly  and  unwillingly  was  most  painfully  evident. 

In  the  kitchen  Sister  Sue  found  the  soiled  dishes, 
plenty  of  them.  May  said,  indeed,  that  she  did  n't  be- 
lieve Katy  had  washed  a  dish  since  she  'd  been  there. 
But  she  put  on  the  apron  Sister  Sue  brought  her  —  a 
fussy  little  white  muslin  with  bow-adorned  pockets 
(one  of  two  bought  at  a  fair)  —  and  she  attacked  the 
dishes  with  much  noise  if  with  but  little  skill. 

Sister  Sue,  donning  the  mate  to  her  assistant's 
apron  —  for  both  of  which  she  had  rushed  upstairs  to 
her  bureau  drawer  —  entered  the  pantry,  with  high 
head  and  high  courage. 

"I'll  have  chicken  croquettes  and  creamed  peas 
and  grilled  sweet  potatoes  for  luncheon,  with  new 
apple-pie  for  dessert,"  she  mused,  tingling  with  a 
pleasant  little  excitement.  "Gordon  loves  those. 


82  SISTER  SUE 

Now  where 's  the  cookbook?"  she  questioned,  her 
roving  eyes  searching  the  somewhat  untidy  shelves 
before  her. 

Sister  Sue  found  the  cookbook  —  but  Gordon  did 
not  have  chicken  croquettes  and  creamed  peas  and 
grilled  sweet  potatoes  and  new  apple-pie  for  lunch- 
eon. He  had  warmed  up  Irish  potatoes  (which  he  ab- 
horred) and  a  boiled  egg  (which  he  cared  little  for), 
and  a  piece  of  stale  cake  for  dessert. 

It  is  a  question  whether  Gordon  was  any  more 
disappointed  than  Sister  Sue  herself  was. 

"I  was  going  to  have  chicken  croquettes  and 
creamed  peas  and  grilled  sweet  potatoes  and  a  new 
apple-pie  for  your  luncheon,  children,"  she  apolo- 
gized ruefully,  as  she  set  the  warmed-up  potatoes  on 
the  table. 

"Why  didn't  you,  then?"  demanded  Gordon, 
surveying  with  unfriendly  eyes  the  food  before  him. 

Sister  Sue  laughed  shamefacedly. 

"Well,  I  discovered  pretty  quick  that  you  have  to 
have  something  besides  a  cookbook  to  make  a  meal 
like  that  a  real  success." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  frowned  Gordon. 

"Well,  little  things  like  cooked  chicken  and  some 
sweet  potatoes  and  a  can  of  peas,  and  some  apples 
help  out,  you  know." 

"But  could  n't  you  order  them?"  demanded  May. 

Again  Sister  Sue  laughed  a  bit  shamefacedly. 

"I  was  going  to  till  I  happened  to  remember  that 
the  man  does  n't  come  here  for  orders  until  nearly 
one;  and  we  have  n't  any  telephone,  you  know.  I'm 


DAYS  OF  ADJUSTMENT  83 

beginning  to  understand  now  why  Katy  was  always 
scolding  about  'h'athen  folks  that  don't  have  no 
telephone.'  Of  course  we  have  missed  it,  all  of  us;  but 
I  never  could  see  why  Katy  should  make  such  a  fuss 
about  it.  I  do  now,"  she  finished,  a  little  ruefully. 

That  many  things  besides  a  cookbook  are  needed 
in  order  to  make  a  success  of  housekeeping,  Sister 
Sue  became  increasingly  aware  of  during  those  first 
few  days  after  Katy  went.  She  speedily  learned  that 
housekeeping  is  very  decidedly  more  than  a  laundress 
who  does  n't  come  and  a  cake  of  toilet  soap  that  is 
missing.  She  learned  that  such  commodities  as  flour 
and  sugar  and  tea  and  coffee  and  lard  and  butter 
and  milk  were  not  only  frightfully  expensive,  but  that 
they  had  an  unaccountable  way  of  giving  out  at  the 
most  inopportune  times;  and  that  even  when  every 
tiresome  ingredient  called  for  by  that  inexorable 
cookbook  was  present,  there  was  still  an  occult  some- 
thing which  she  seldom  seemed  to  have,  yet  without 
which  the  pies  and  cakes  and  puddings  and  bread  and 
biscuits  were  a  most  dismal  failure  —  not  at  all  like 
Katy's.  It  began,  indeed,  to  look  very  much  as  if  she 
were  not  as  smart  as  —  Katy ! 

She  learned,  too,  that  bow-adorned  muslin  aprons 
are  a  poor  protection  against  the  extraordinary  un- 
tidiness that  ensues  from  the  preparation  of  the 
simplest  meal.  While  as  for  dishes  —  well,  May  said 
that  if  Katy  used  any  more  dishes  than  Sister  Sue  did 
just  to  boil  a  potato,  she  would  like  to  know  it!  May 
was  still  washing  dishes,  though  she,  too,  had  long 
since  discarded  the  twin  of  the  muslin  apron,  bought 


84  SISTER  SUE 

at  a  fair,  substituting  a  stout  blue  gingham,  loaned  by 
Mrs.  Preston. 

Mrs.  Preston!  Sister  Sue  wondered  sometimes  what 
she  would  have  done  had  it  not  been  for  Mrs.  Preston. 
Mrs.  Preston  had  not  only  lovely  gingham  aprons, 
but  everything  else  that  Sister  Sue  went  to  borrow 
because  of  lack  in  her  own  home.  To  Sister  Sue  it  was 
really  wonderful  how  three  small  rooms  could  contain 
so  many  helpful,  absolutely  necessary  things  that 
one  wanted.  It  was  wonderful  how  one  small  head  — 
Mrs.  Preston's  —  could  contain  so  inexhaustible  a 
fund  of  information  as  to  just  how  much  salt  to  put 
in,  just  how  long  things  should  be  baked  or  boiled,  just 
how  to  test  those  fearsome  concoctions  in  the  oven  to 
see  if  they  were  done.  Mrs.  Preston,  indeed,  seemed 
to  have  at  her  tongue's  end  all  that  mysterious,  occult 
something  without  which  anything  fashioned  to  be 
cooked  would  later  run  a  very  decided  risk  of  being 
a  failure.  Very  soon  Sister  Sue  discovered  this  and 
availed  herself  of  it. 

And  little  by  little  Sister  Sue  had  her  reward.  Her 
biscuits  grew  less  soggy,  her  cake  less  heavy,  her  pie- 
crust less  tough.  Her  meats  grew  more  tender  and  her 
vegetables  more  palatable.  In  time,  too,  it  ceased  to 
take  all  her  waking  hours  to  get  three  meals  a  day 
and  keep  the  house  in  order.  She  had  a  few  minutes  to 
spare  for  her  father. 

But  it  was  not  easy.  Her  feet  and  her  back  and  her 
legs  and  her  head  ached  with  the  strain ;  and  many  a 
night  she  was  too  tired  to  "hit  the  bed,"  she  told  May. 
She  said  she  felt  as  if  she  were  propped  up  on  prongs 


DAYS  OF  ADJUSTMENT  85 

that  held  her  a  foot  above  the  sheet.  It  was  not  a 
comfortable  sensation. 

She  could  not  find  solace  or  relief  even  in  the  piano, 
these  days,  for  there  was  always  a  cut  finger  or  a 
burned  thumb  to  make  playing  a  torture  to  her.  For 
that  matter,  it  had  been  more  or  less  of  a  torture, 
anyway,  from  the  very  first  to  play  on  that  piano,  so 
jangling  on  her  sensitive  nerves  were  the  tinkling 
notes  that  failed  so  miserably  to  respond  to  what  she 
was  longing  to  express.  It  was  becoming  almost  im- 
possible, therefore,  to  play  upon  it,  even  before  the 
cut  fingers  and  burned  thumbs  made  it  a  physical 
torture  as  well  as  a  mental  one. 

Yet  if  ever  Sister  Sue  had  felt  the  need  of  a  piano 
safety-valve,  it  was  now.  She  told  herself  sometimes 
that  she  might  yet  resort  to  Katy's  piano,  and  slam  a 
door  or  bang  a  pan.  She  felt  like  it.  Certainly  her 
family  did  not  hesitate  to  do  it.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
to  Sister  Sue  that  they  did  not  do  anything  but  bang 
their  doors  and  slam  their  pans.  Even  her  father,  in 
a  gentle  way,  fretted  a  good  deal  at  the  many  incon- 
veniences of  his  daily  living.  He  said  that  he  liked 
Gilmoreville,  oh,  yes,  he  liked  it  very  much,  for  a 
while;  but  he  fancied  they'd  better  go  back  to  town 
pretty  soon.  Patiently,  over  and  over  again,  Sister 
Sue  would  explain  to  him  that  their  city  home  was  all 
torn  up  just  now,  and  that  they  would  be  much  bet- 
ter off  to  remain  where  they  were,  for  the  present. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  I  see,  I  see,"  the  old  man  would 
answer  with  the  gentle  patience  that  had  become  ha- 
bitual with  him,  and  with  the  peering  eyes  that  seemed 


86  SISTER  SUE 

to  be  trying  so  hard  to  penetrate  the  fog  that  was 
benumbing  his  senses.  "Well,  then,  we  had  better 
stay  where  we  are,  for  the  present  —  yes."  And  he 
would  turn  away  manifestly  satisfied. 

And  he  would  remain  satisfied  for  perhaps  ten 
minutes,  for  perhaps  ten  hours.  Then  again  he  would 
tell  his  daughter  Sue  that  he  liked  Gilmoreville,  oh, 
yes,  he  liked  it  very  well;  but  he  fancied  they'd  better 
go  back  to  town  pretty  soon.  And  his  daughter  Sue 
would  draw  a  long  breath,  and  say : 

"Yes,  Father,  but  our  home  there  is  all  torn  up, 
and  — "  and  so  on  through  the  long,  patient  expla- 
nation. 

It  was  this  necessity  for  making  explanations  over 
and  over,  and  then  over  again,  that  made  living  with 
John  Gilmore  so  nerve-wearing  and  wearisome.  There 
was  always  present,  too,  the  heartache  of  constant  as- 
sociation with  the  tragedy  of  a  wrecked  mind  in  a  fa- 
miliar, well-loved  body.  But,  fortunately  for  every- 
body, John  Gilmore  was,  in  the  main,  fairly  happy 
and  content  with  his  picture-cutting  and  jackstraw- 
playing,  and  with  his  dearly  loved  puttering  about 
the  yard  and  garden. 

May  and  Gordon,  however,  were  not  happy.  There 
was  never  any  doubt  about  their  door-slamming 
and  pan-banging.  Gordon  said  it  was  the  deadest 
town  he  ever  saw;  and  that  he'd  get  out  of  it  in  the 
fall  if  he  had  to  join  a  circus  to  do  it!  And  as  for 
expecting  a  fellow  to  live,  really  live,  without  lights 
and  hot  water  and  bathrooms,  and  a  few  decent  con- 
veniences like  that,  it  could  n't  be  done!  That's  all! 


DAYS  OF  ADJUSTMENT  87 

You  just  existed!  And  existing  was  n't  living,  not  by 
a  long  shot !  As  for  fishing  and  hunting  —  there  was 
n't  any;  and  he  did  n't  believe  the  town  knew  what  a 
golf  course  or  a  tennis  court  was.  How  his  father  could 
have  endured  to  spend  his  boyhood  there  he  could  n't 
conceive.  And  he  wanted  to  know  why  Sister  Sue 
had  n't  sold  that  place,  and  gone  somewhere  else  — 
anywhere  would  have  been  better  than  there.  And 
why  did  they  let  Katy  go,  too?  She'd  have  stayed 
if  they  'd  paid  her  more,  he  knew  she  would.  As  for 
their  thinking  he  could  eat  some  of  those  fearful  and 
wonderful  concoctions  of  Sister  Sue's  —  he  could  n't! 
That 's  all !  And  they  ought  not  to  expect  him  to. 
All  of  which  were  a  few  of  Gordon's  "door  slams." 
May  was  not  far  behind  him.  True,  May  washed 
dishes  and  dusted  occasionally;  but  she  so  bemoaned 
the  cruel  fate  that  had  cast  her  lot  in  such  sad  lines 
that  Sister  Sue  was  sorely  tempted  sometimes  to  do 
the  whole  thing  herself.  May  complained,  too,  that 
the  soapy  water  and  dust  were  ruining  her  hands, 
and  the  hot  kitchen  was  spoiling  her  complexion; 
though  she  never  failed  to  add  that,  of  course,  that 
did  n't  matter  in  Gilmoreville;  there  was  n't  anybody 
there,  anyway,  who  would  know  or  care  whether  her 
hands  were  great  red  paws  or  not  or  her  face  blistered. 
May  disliked  Gilmoreville  only  one  degree  less  than 
did  her  brother.  She  said  that  the  few  people  there 
who  had  money  were  snobs;  and  that  the  patronizing 
airs  they  put  on,  just  because  a  person  had  lost  a  little 
money,  were  sickening,  positively  sickening.  And  as 
for  the  rest  of  the  people  in  the  town  —  as  if  anybody 


88  SISTER  SUE 

could  honestly  expect  her  to  find  a  really  congenial 
companion  among  Granny  Preston,  old  lady  Whitte- 
more,  and  their  friends! 

And  there  was  n't  a  thing  to  do,  not  a  thing!  As  for 
her  trying  to  write  stories  in  a  place  like  that,  it  was 
out  of  the  question.  Martin  Kent  might  like  such 
people  for  copy  —  but  not  she.  So  that  was  impossi- 
ble! She  could  n't  even  go  out  to  walk.  She  never  saw 
such  horrid  weather,  rain  and  mud  —  and  only  two 
sidewalks  in  town  really  fit  to  walk  on.  And  as  for 
staying  at  home  all  the  time,  with  Father  always 
around  in  that  frightful  condition,  and  you  never 
knew  what  he  was  going  to  do,  or  when  he  was  going  to 
ask  for  folks  dead  and  buried  years  ago  —  she  just 
simply  could  not  do  it!  That's  all!  And  how  Sister 
Sue  stood  it,  she  did  not  know.  All  is,  Sister  Sue 
must  be  very  phlegmatic,  and  not  at  all  sensitive,  or 
she  could  not  do  it. 

All  of  which  was  merely  May's  way  of  slamming 
doors  and  banging  pans. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER? 

As  yet  Martin  Kent  had  not  visited  the  Gilmores  at 
all.  He  was  to  have  come  once,  and  the  day  was  set  by 
himself;  but  when  Sister  Sue  wrote  him  that  Katy 
had  just  gone  and  gave  a  very  amusing  account  of 
the  household  under  her  somewhat  unskilled  manage- 
ment, he  had  written  back  at  once  that  he  could  not 
think  of  adding  his  presence  to  her  already  overbur- 
dened shoulders;  and  that  the  last  thing  they  should 
have  under  the  circumstances  was  company.  He 
added  that  he  was  glad  he  had  the  sense  and  con- 
siderateness  to  refuse,  even  though  they  were  so  kind 
as  still  to  ask  him  to  come.  He  sent  a  book  and  an 
expensive  box  of  candy;  and  his  letter  to  Sister  Sue 
was  very  kind  and  affectionate. 

Sister  Sue  reminded  herself  of  this  last  very  ear- 
nestly in  the  first  flush  of  her  disappointment  that  he 
was  not  coming.  Not  until  the  letter  had  arrived  say- 
ing that  he  would  not  spend  the  week-end  with  them, 
after  all,  had  she  quite  realized  how  much  she  had 
been  looking  forward  to  the  little  visit  as  a  welcome 
break  in  the  dead  monotony  of  her  existence.  Not 
until  she  knew  that  she  was  not  to  see  him  did  she 
remember  what  a  lot  of  things  she  was  treasuring  up 
to  tell  him  —  funny  occurrences  that  would  make  him 
put  back  his  head  and  laugh  (how  she  loved  to  hear 
Martin  Kent  laugh!),  unique  speeches  that  he  might 


90  SISTER  SUE 

like  for  copy.  She  wanted  to  ask  his  advice,  too,  about 
numberless  matters.  Most  of  all,  she  wanted  some- 
body out  of  the  old  life  just  to  sit  down  and  talk  with, 
so  that  she  might  forget,  for  one  little  minute,  per- 
haps, that  the  old  life  was  not  still  hers. 

And  when  the  letter  came,  and  she  knew  that  all 
these  anticipated  pleasures  were  not  to  be,  she  was 
disappointed  and  perhaps  just  a  bit  angry  at  first. 
Then  is  when  very  hastily  and  very  earnestly  she  re- 
minded herself  of  how  affectionate  and  tender  the 
letter  was,  and  that  after  all  he  was  really  doing  it  for 
her  good  so  as  not  to  add  to  her  burdens.  She  said 
this  to  May,  too,  when  May  showed  great  anger  at 
the  news;  but  May  only  expressed  her  vexation  even 
more  vehemently,  and  added  the  tart  assertion: 

"Well,  if  he  was  my  lover,  Sue  Gilmore,  and  he 
turned  down  a  visit  to  me  like  that,  I'd  know  the 
reason  why  or  he'd  get  a  piece  of  my  mind." 

"Nonsense!  Why,  he  told  the  reason,  didn't  he? 
He  said  he  did  n't  want  to  —  to  add  to  our  burdens." 

"Humph!  If  he'd  wanted  to  see  us  very  badly,  I 
fancy  he  would  n't  stop  to  think  whether  he  was  add- 
ing to  anybody's  burdens  or  not." 

But  Sister  Sue  said  "Pshaw,"  and  "Hush,  hush," 
and  "Nonsense,"  very  sharply;  but  quickly,  and  with 
so  much  emphasis,  that  it  looked  almost  as  if  she 
had  thought  of  that  same  thing  herself. 

And  she  had.  That  had  been  one  of  the  reasons  why 
she  had  so  hurriedly  reminded  herself  that  the  letter 
was  very  affectionate  and  very  lover-like.  It  was  at 
times  like  these  that  Sister  Sue  could  not  help  remem- 


WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER?  91 

bering  the  promise  to  marry  him  in  July  which  she 
had  never  been  asked  to  renew.  Not  that  she  wanted 
him  to  ask  it,  of  course,  if  he  did  not  want  to,  she  al- 
ways assured  herself  hastily;  but  when  one  had  once 
agreed  to  a  date,  it  made  one  feel  queer  not  to  have 
one's  lover  say  something  — 

At  this  point  Sister  Sue  always  put  the  thought 
resolutely  out  of  her  mind.  There  were  some  things, 
she  decided,  that  it  certainly  did  no  good  to  think  of. 
This  was  one;  and  another  was  what  Signer  Bartoni 
had  said  to  her  that  wonderful  day  of  the  recital. 
It  did  not  help  her  to  bake  beans  and  stir  up  bread 
to  be  thinking  all  the  time  of  that  "Encore!  Encore' 
Susanna  Gilmore !  Encore ! "  The  only  great "  arteest " 
she  had  any  prospect  of  being  at  present  had  to  do 
with  flour-sifters  and  rolling-pins.  Better  to  keep  her 
mind  then  on  the  flour-sifter  and  the  rolling-pin,  she 
declared. 

But  however  earnestly  she  thus  adjured  herself, 
and  however  "foolish"  it  might  be  to  allow  such 
thoughts  to  occupy  her  mind,  there  were  times  when 
Sister  Sue  found  herself  utterly  unable  to  walk  the 
strait  and  narrow  path  that  led  through  pots  and 
pans  and  kettles  to  her  kitchen  stove.  In  herthoughts 
-  though  they  were  bitterly  hopeless  thoughts  now 
—  she  was  still  swaying  countless  thousands  by  the 
magic  of  her  fingers,  and  she  was  still  bowing  her 
thanks  to  the  clamorous  "Encore!  Encore!  Su- 
sanna Gilmore!" 

All  this  was  in  her  thoughts.  But  in  her  speech  — 
in  her  speech  there  were  only  the  pots  and  pans  and 


92  SISTER  SUE 

dustcloths  of  her  everyday  living.  Sister  Sue  could 
control  her  tongue  if  not  her  thoughts.  If  it  did  no 
good,  but  rather  harm,  to  think  of  joys  that  had 
been,  it  certainly  could  do  even  less  good  to  talk  of 
them.  So  Sister  Sue  laughed  and  joked,  and  made 
light  of  pies  that  "ran  out"  and  cakes  that  burned; 
and  merrily,  many  times  a  day  she  said,  "Oh,  well, 
it  doesn't  matter!"  or,  "It  might  be  a  whole  lot 
worse!"  or  words  of  like  import,  hoping  in  this  way 
really  to  help  the  others  and  herself  along  the  hard 
road  they  were  traveling.  And  she  honestly  thought 
she  was  doing  it. 

And  then  came  the  incident  of  the  beefsteak-pie. 
It  was  not  a  good  pie.  The  meat  was  tough,  and  the 
crust,  though  light,  was  very  yellow,  with  darker 
yellow  spots  like  plums  scattered  through  it.  The 
spots  did  not  taste  at  all  like  plums,  however.  They 
had  a  curious,  most  unpleasant  flavor  not  unlike  the 
flavor  of  the  crust  itself,  only  much  worse.  The  top 
of  the  pie,  when  Sister  Sue  brought  it  to  the  table, 
displayed  a  beautiful  golden-brown  crust,  and  looked 
most  appetizing.  Perhaps  for  that  reason  the  dis- 
appointment was  all  the  greater  when  the  pie  was 
cut  and  served,  and  May  and  Gordon,  avowedly 
"starved  to  death,"  took  generous  mouthfulsof  that 
yellow  crust,  each  mouthful,  as  it  happened,  splotched 
with  a  big,  dark  yellow  "plum." 

"Great  Scott!"  sputtered  Gordon,  as  soon  as  he 
could  clear  his  mouth  and  speak.  "What  are  you 
giving  us  now?  Did  you  build  this  with  soap  ?  " 

At  the  same  minute  May  reached  for  her  glass  of 
water. 


WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER?  93 

"Ugh!  Sue,  Sister  Sue!  "she  choked.  "Whatwit?" 

Sister  Sue,  flushing  hotly,  nibbled  at  the  crust 
and  made  a  wry  face. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea,"  she  sighed,  with  a 
shrug  as  of  resignation.  "Mrs.  Preston  told  me  just 
how  to  make  it,  and  I  did  it." 

John  Gilmore,  his  face  plainly  indicative  of  the  bad 
taste  in  his  mouth,  carefully  poked  with  his  fork  the 
pie-crust  to  one  side  of  his  plate.  He  looked  up  as 
Sister  Sue  spoke. 

"But  why  don't  you  let  Katy  do  the  cooking?"  he 
asked,  with  gentle  irritation,  giving  another  poke  at 
the  offending  food  upon  his  plate. 

"Katy  isn't  here,  Father."  It  was  perhaps  al- 
ready twenty  times  that  Sister  Sue  had  told  him  this ; 
.but  there  was  only  a  half-suppressed  sigh  as  she  told 
it  now  for  the  twenty-first  time. 

"You  bet  she  is  n't!"  corroborated  Gordon  mean- 
ingly, making  a  very  great  show  of  trying  to  cut  a 
piece  of  meat. 

"Yes,  I  guess  we  know  that  all  right,"  chimed  in 
May,  in  an  aggrieved  voice. 

Sister  Sue  laughed  lightly. 

"  Now  that  is  n't  a  mite  complimentary  to  my  cook- 
ing," she  pouted  in  mock  dismay.  "But,  come,  it 
might  be  a  lot  worse!  The  gravy's  good,  anyway. 
I'm  glad  of  that.  It'll  be  lovely  on  the  baked  pota- 
toes." 

"Will  it,  indeed?  I'm  glad  you  think  so!"  Gordon 
spoke  with  the  sarcasm  of  a  hungry  man  who  has  been 
offered  a  stone  for  bread. 


94  SISTER  SUE 

But  it  was  from  May  that  came  the  avalanche. 

" Glad?  Of  course  she 's  glad !  She 's  glad  for  every- 
thing!" stormed  the  girl,  with  sudden  wrath.  "She 
likes  things  here,  Gordon !  She  likes  the  house  and  the 
town  and  the  people  in  it!  She  likes  to  be  without 
lights  and  gas  and  hot  water,  and  no  maid  at  all !  She 
likes  it,  likes  it!" 

"Why,  May!"  gasped  Sister  Sue  unbelievingly. 

"Well,  you  do,  you  know  you  do!"  retorted  May. 
"You  don't  mind  things  here  at  all,  and  you  know  it. 
You  don't  mind  horrid  old  smelly  kerosene  lamps, 
and  wearing  old  clothes,  and  doing  your  own  work. 
You're  always  laughing  and  saying  it  might  be  worse, 
and  never  mind !  And  you  don't  care  a  bit  how  we  're 
suffering.  You  try  to  make  us  like  it,  too.  Here  you 
are  even  trying  to  make  us  like  this  old  soapy  pie  to- 
day! But  you  can't  do  it!  We're  hungry!  We  want 
something  to  eat!  And  you  laugh  and  tell  us  to  eat 
the  gravy  on  our  baked  potatoes;  that  it'll  be  lovely! 
Lovely,  indeed!  If  you'd  only  show  some  sympathy 
with  what  we  have  to  bear,  we  should  n't  mind  it. 
We  could  stand  things.  But  you  don't  care!  You 
know  you  don't  care!  You  like  it  here!  You  laugh, 
no  matter  what  't  is,  and  tell  us  it  might  be  worse. 
But  I  tell  you  it  could  n't  be  worse!  Nothing  could 
be  worse  than  what  we  have  here  every  single  day 
of  our  lives  —  here ! " 

And  with  a  choking  sob  May  pushed  back  her  chair 
and  rushed  from  the  room. 

And  Sister  Sue  —  Sister  Sue  sat  motionless,  her 
eyes  looking  straight  ahead.  In  her  ears  were  ringing 


WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER?  95 

May's  words,  "  You  like  it  here  —  you  like  it ! "  But  in 
her  ears  also  was  ringing,  like  an  echo,  away  off  in  the 
distance,  "Encore!  Encore!  Susanna  Gilmore!  En- 
core!" 

A  hand  plucked  at  her  sleeve. 

"Sue,  Sue,  Sister  Sue,  why  don't  you  answer  me? 
I  said  what  was  May  talking  about?" 

Sister  Sue  turned.  She  gave  a  weary  little  smile. 

"Nothing,  Father,  that  you  would  understand  — 
or  that  she  understands  either.  Don't  try  to  eat  the 
crust.  Let  me  give  you  some  bread  for  that  gravy," 
she  finished,  reaching  for  his  plate. 

The  meal  was  then  concluded  in  silence,  save  for 
the  one  remark  from  John  Gilmore,  apropos  of 
nothing: 

"I  should  think,  Sue,  you  would  have  Katy  do  the 
cooking." 

Sister  Sue's  hands  shook  a  little  when  she  was  clear- 
ing off  the  table  that  noon.  They  still  were  not  quite 
steady  all  the  while  she  was  washing  the  dishes  and 
putting  the  kitchen  in  order  —  May  did  not  come  in 
to  help.  But  Sister  Sue  was  yet  apparently  very  cool 
and  calm  when  she  ran  up  the  back  stairs  at  two 
o'clock  to  Mrs.  Preston's  rooms. 

"Mrs.  Preston,  what  is  it  that  ails  things  when 
they're  yellow,  and  taste  awfully,  like  —  like  soap?" 
she  demanded  a  little  breathlessly,  dropping  herself 
into  a  chair. 

Mrs.  Preston's  shrewd  blue  eyes  twinkled  as  she 
answered : 

"SaPratus,  most  likely.  What  is  the  matter  now?  " 


96  SISTER  SUE 

"But  you  told  me  to  use  it,  Mrs.  Preston!  You  said 
when  I  used  sour  milk  to  put  in  saleratus.  And  I  did.'* 

"How  much?" 

"Oh,  I  put  in  enough!"  cried  Sister  Sue  quickly. 
"I  know  I  did  that;  for  after  I  got  the  dough  almost 
mixed  —  it  was  for  a  beef  steak-pie-crust  —  I  could 
n't  remember  whether  I  'd  put  in  the  saleratus  or  not. 
So  I  put  in  the  full  dose  then,  so 's  to  be  sure  to  have 
plenty.  I  knew  enough  not  to  try  to  be  economical 
over  that ! "  she  finished,  in  obvious  pride  of  well- 
doing. 

"Oh,  you  did!  Well,  I  guess  you  did  put  in  —  a 
plenty."  Mrs.  Preston's  shoulders  were  shaking  with 
poorly  suppressed  mirth. 

Sister  Sue  lifted  her  chin  a  little. 

"Well,  what  have  I  done  now?"  she  demanded. 
"Oh,  I  know  I've  done  something,  of  course!"  She 
spoke  with  much  bravado;  but  there  was  a  tense 
harshness  in  her  voice  that  hinted  at  tragedy,  which 
should  have  given  warning  —  but  it  did  not. 

"You  put  in  just  two  times  too  much,  child;  an' 
sal'ratus  ain't  a  thing  ter  stand  no  triflin'.  Oh,  I  know 
how  it  looked  —  yaller  's  saffron,  an'  brown  spots  all 
through  it  that  tasted  — " 

"I  found  out  how  they  tasted,"  interrupted  Sis- 
ter Sue  bitterly.  The  bravado  was  all  gone  now. 
There  was  left  only  the  tragedy  in  her  voice. 

She  fell  silent  then,  her  eyes  moodily  fixed  out  the 
window. 

For  a  time  the  little  old  woman  watched  her  over 
the  tops  of  her  glasses.  Then  she  spoke: 


WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER?  97 

"Now,  listen,  dearie.  I  just  would  n't  let  a  little 
thing  like  too  much  sal'ratus  sp'ile  my  life,"  she  be- 
gan soothingly. 

But  Sister  Sue,  as  if  stung  into  instant  action, 
sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Spoil  it?  Why,  of  course  not,"  she  cried  in  a 
blithe  voice,  beginning  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
room.  "But,  then,  I  could  n't  spoil  it,  Mrs.  Preston. 
You  don't  understand.  I  like  the  town  and  the  house 
and  the  people !  I  like  to  be  without  lights  and  hot 
water  and  gas  and  telephones !  I  like  kerosene  lamps 
and  old  clothes!  And  I  like  beefsteak-pie  that's  all 
yellow  and  brown  and  tastes  like  soap!" 

Sister  Sue  stopped  for  breath,  but  only  for  breath. 
Before  the  dumbfounded  little  woman  in  the  big  chair 
could  speak,  Sister  Sue  was  hurrying  on  again,  her 
feet  still  restlessly  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 

"And  I  have  n't  a  bit  of  sympathy  with  anybody 
who  doesn't  like  them!  I'm  always  laughing  and 
singing,  and  saying  that  it  does  n't  matter,  and  it 
might  be  worse,  and,  anyhow,  we  can  be  glad  the 
gravy's  good  for  the  baked  potatoes;  and  so  of  course 
I  have  n't  any  sympathy.  And  that's  because  I  like 
it!  I  like  it !  I  LIKE  IT!  And  — "  But  Sister  Sue  did 
not  finish  her  sentence.  With  a  little  choking  sob  she 
threw  herself  into  a  chair  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

For  a  few  moments  she  sobbed  on,  unmolested. 
Mrs.  Preston  was  still  watching  her  over  the  tops  of 
her  glasses.  There  was  no  dumbfounded  amazement 
on  Mrs.  Preston's  face  now.  There  were  indignation 


98  SISTER  SUE 

and  sympathy;  but  there  was  also  a  shrewd  look  of 
understanding. 

When  the  sobs  had  become  quieter  and  a  little  less 
frequent,  Mrs.  Preston  spoke: 

"So  that's  what  they've  been  say  in'  to  ye,  is  it, 
dearie  —  that  you  hain't  no  sympathy  with  'em?" 

The  girl  straightened  up  with  a  jerk.  A  dismayed 
look  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  what  have  I  said,  what  have  I  said?  '  she 
moaned.  "Forget  it!  It  wasn't  anything,  really. 
I  —  I  was  just  talking.  I  —  I'm  tired,  Mrs.  Preston. 
Please  forget  it!"  And  again  Sister  Sue  sprang  to 
her  feet  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room. 

"Come,  come,  child,  I  ain't  deaf  nor  blind,"  de- 
clared the  irate  little  old  woman,  with  an  impatient 
gesture;  "an'  I  ain't  such  a  big  fool  as  some  folks 
thinks  I  am.  Now  you  might  just  as  well  own  up. 
They  said  it  —  that  brother  an'  sister  of  yours.  They 
said  you  did  n't  have  no  sympathy  with  'em,  just 
because  you  don't  growl  an'  scold  an'  find  fault  all 
the  time  like  they  do." 

Sister  Sue  wheeled  agitatedly  and  stopped  short. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Preston,  I  did  n't  —  I  never  did  say  — 
that!" 

"Maybe  not;  but  I  did,"  smiled  the  old  woman 
grimly.  "An'  't  was  true,  too.  You  can't  deny  it." 

Sister  Sue  flushed  a  painful  scarlet. 

"I  know;  but  —  that  is,  I  mean,"  she  stammered, 
"  they  did  n't  say  it  just  like  that;  and  —  and  I  ought 
not  to  have  said  anything,  anyway.  They  —  they 
were  just  hungry,  and  disappointed  over  that  pie,  you 


WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER?  99 

know.  And,  really,  Mrs.  Preston,  it  did  taste  awfully 
-that  pie!" 

"An'  you  told  'em  to  never  mind,  an'  it  might  be 
worse,  an'  the  gravy  was  good,  anyhow.  Now,  did  n't 
you?" 

"Well,  I  —  I  only  meant  to  —  to  help." 

"An',  of  course,  as  long  as  you  like  it  here  so  well, 
an'  like  ter  cook  an'  wash  dishes,  an'  — " 

"Like  it!  Like  it!"  stormed  the  girl,  turning  sud- 
denly and  beginning  her  nervous  pacing  of  the  room 
again.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  can  like  it  when  all  the  time 
I'm  thinking,  thinking,  of  what  I  want  to  do  —  of 
what  I  might  have  done?  And  I  was  going  to  do  it. 
I  was  going  to  do  something  really  worth  while.  I  was 
going  to  make  them  all  proud  of  me.  And  I  could  —  I 
know  I  could!  I  could  feel  it  in  me.  And  Signer  Bar- 
toni  said  — " 

Once  again  she  told  the  story.  On  and  on  she  talked, 
feverishly,  her  eyes  sparkling,  her  cheeks  flushing,  her 
whole  self  tingling  with  the  joy  and  relief  of  pour- 
ing into  sympathetic  ears  the  pent-up  yearnings 
and  heart-burnings  of  long  weeks  of  silence.  And  so 
vividly  did  she  draw  the  picture  that  even  the  little 
old  woman  opposite,  to  whom  music  meant  the 
church  hymn-book  and  "The  Maiden's  Prayer," 
caught  a  fleeting  vision  of  a  radiant  Sister  Sue  bow- 
ing her  appreciation  of  a  clamorous  "Encore!  En- 
core! Susanna  Gilmore!  Encore!" 

Then  for  both  of  them  came  the  sudden  descent  to 
earth. 

"But  what  —  what  am  I  saying!"  cried  Sister  Sue, 


100  SISTER  SUE 

sinking  into  her  chair  again.  "I  —  I  did  n't  mean  to 
say  —  all  that,"  she  sighed  wearily. 

"Humph!"  The  little  old  woman's  eyes  were  very 
bright.  "They  know  about  this,  I  suppose  —  your 
brother  an'  sister?" 

"That  I  wanted  to  become  a  concert  pianist?  Oh, 
yes,"  nodded  Sister  Sue,  with  indifferent  acquies- 
cence. 

"Then  what  makes  'em  think  you  like  —  this?" 

The  girl  laughed  a  little  bitterly. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  because  I  —  I'm  always  telling 
them  that  we  can  be  glad  the  gravy 's  good  with  the 
potatoes,  anyway,"  she  shrugged. 

"Eh?  What?  That  the  gravy's  good  with  the 
—  oh,  I  see,"  chuckled  Mrs.  Preston,  the  light  of 
sudden  understanding  clearing  her  puzzled  counte- 
nance. 

"It  was  only  that  I  was  trying  to  help  make  things 
easier,"  sighed  the  girl,  half  apologetically,  with  a 
faint  smile. 

"An*  they  wa'n't  in  the  mood  ter  have  things  made 
easier  that  way." 

"Apparently  not,"  agreed  Sister  Sue;  then,  with 
spirit,  she  amended:  "But  it  really  doesn't  do  any 
good  to  keep  fretting  over  things  we  can't  possibly 
help,  you  know." 

"Maybe  not.  Still,  I  think  I'd  try  it  if  I  was  you," 
suggested  the  little  old  woman  imperturbably. 

"You  would  —  what?"  frowned  the  girl. 

"Try  it.  Try  fretting.  Join  in  —  sympathize  with 
them,  you  know.  They  wanted  sympathy.  Well, 


WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER?  101 

show  'em  that  you  do  sympathize  with  them  —  that 
you  don't  like  things  any  better  than  they  do." 

Sister  Sue  stared  frankly,  her  eyes  incredulous. 
Then  suddenly  she  laughed.  With  brisk  alacrity  she 
got  to  her  feet. 

"Granny  Preston,  you're  a  dear,"  she  chuckled. 
"And  I'll  try  it,  I  promise."  Then,  over  her  shoulder 
as  she  whisked  out  of  the  room,  she  called  back:  "It 
is  n't  only  how  much  saleratus  to  put  in  sour  milk 
that  you  know,  is  it?" 

Behind  her  she  left  a  little  straight-backed  old 
woman  who  sat  smiling  for  a  long  time  all  by  herself. 

Sister  Sue  began  that  same  afternoon  to  "sym- 
pathize." 

Mrs.  Whipple  called.  Sister  Sue  was  looking  over 
some  beans  to  put  to  soak  that  night  when  May  came 
into  the  kitchen  to  tell  her  that  the  lady  was  coming 
up  the  walk. 

"Oh,  dear!"  Sister  Sue  scowled,  but  she  did  not 
rise  from  her  chair.  She  picked  up  another  handful 
of  beans  and  spread  them  out  on  her  firm,  rosy  palm. 

"What  a  shame!  You  see  her,  May,  there's  a  good 
girl." 

May  fell  back  in  amazement. 

"Why,  Sue,  are  you  crazy?  You  know  I  shan't  see 
her!  I  never  see  these  people!  They  simply  drive  me 
crazy,  and  you  know  it!" 

The  doorbell  jangled  sharply,  and  with  an  impa- 
tient gesture  Sister  Sue  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Yes,  I  know,  and  I  don't  blame  you  for  not  liking 
to  see  them.  I  don't,  either.  They're  stupid,  tiresome 


102  SISTER  SUE 

things,  most  of  them;  and  why  they  will  insist  on 
coming  to  see  us,  I  don't  understand.  However,  I  Ve 
got  to  see  her,  of  course,  I  suppose,  since  you  won't." 
And  she  disappeared  through  the  doorway,  leaving 
behind  her  a  girl  with  a  slightly  puzzled  frown  on  her 
face. 

When  the  caller  had  gone,  Sister  Sue  went  back  to 
her  beans.  She  looked  up  crossly  when  her  sister 
May  again  entered  the  kitchen. 

"You  did  n't  finish  my  beans,  I  notice,"  she  com- 
plained. "I  should  think  't  was  bad  enough  to  see 
all  the  callers  without  having  to  come  back  out  here 
and  do  the  work  besides." 

Once  more  May  fell  back  in  obvious  amazement. 

"Why,  Sister  Sue,  I  —  I  never  do  —  do  that  part 
of  the  work,  and  you  know  it!"  she  gasped. 

"Oh,  I  don't  blame  you  for  not  liking  it,"  retorted 
Sister  Sue,  dropping  herself  down  to  the  table  and 
diving  her  hand  deep  into  the  bag  of  beans.  "I  don't 
like  it  myself.  If  there  's  one  thing  in  this  world  that 's 
more  deadly  tiresome  to  do  than  housework,  I  should 
like  to  know  what  it  is.  It's  just  cook  and  wash 
dishes  and  clean  up,  and  cook  and  do  dishes  and  clean 
up  from  one  day's  end  to  the  other;  and  I  hate  it! 
I  hate  it!  And—" 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  for  she  found  her- 
self alone.  May  had  fled.  And  Sister  Sue  smiled. 

This  was  only  the  beginning.  It  was  really  sur- 
prising how  many  things  Sister  Sue  found  to  fret 
about  during  the  rest  of  the  day.  It  was  too  hot. 
The  air  was  horrid.  Her  feet  ached.  Her  head  ached. 


WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER?  103 

Her  wrists  pained  her.  The  fire  would  n't  burn.  The 
lamp  smoked.  She  hated  kerosene,  anyway.  She 
never  did  see  how  anybody  could  cut  the  wick  so 
there  would  n't  be  a  horrid  index  finger  somewhere. 
She  really  dreaded  to  go  to  bed.  She  would  like  to 
sleep  in  a  decent  bed  once  more  before  she  died,  but 
she  never  expected  to.  And  where  all  the  flies  and 
mosquitoes  came  from,  she  could  n't  imagine.  For 
her  part  she  did  n't  see  what  such  little  pests  were 
for,  anyway.  She  supposed  the  world  could  have  been 
made  without  such  things  in  it! 

And  so  it  went.  Not  only  did  Sister  Sue  have  these 
many  grievances  of  her  own  to  complain  of,  but  she 
always  joined  heartily  with  whatever  May  or  Gor- 
don had  to  say  about  these  annoyances.  She  never 
remonstrated  with  them  —  indeed,  no.  She  agreed 
with  them.  She  applauded  them.  She  said  she  thought 
so,  too,  every  time,  and  she  never  did  see  anything 
that  was  so  perfectly  horrid! 

If  she  saw  the  puzzled  frown  and  perplexed  glances 
on  the  faces  of  her  brother  and  sister,  she  gave  no  sign. 
Her  own  countenance  was  serenely  non-committal, 
except  when  she  was  openly  scolding;  then  it  was  fret- 
ful and  scowling,  as  it  would  naturally  be,  of  course. 

The  next  morning  Sister  Sue  was  sleepy.  She  told 
the  family  at  breakfast  how  she  had  hated  to  get  up, 
and  how  perfectly  horrid  it  was  that  they  had  to  get 
up  so  early  now.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  but 
she  declared  she  knew  it  was  going  to  rain  before 
night.  And  when  Gordon  said  he  guessed  it  was  going 
to  be  a  pretty  hot  day,  she  said  yes,  indeed,  it  was;  that 


104  SISTER  SUE 

in  her  opinion  it  was  going  to  be  the  hottest  yet.  And 
that  people  might  talk  all  they  wanted  to  about  the 
city's  being  hot,  but  if  it  was  any  hotter  than  Gil- 
moreville  was  already  —  and  barely  July  yet  —  she 
would  like  to  know  it,  that's  all. 

Gordon  did  not  say  any  more  then  about  the 
weather.  He  turned  his  attention  to  his  breakfast. 
There  were  graham  rolls,  soggy  graham  rolls,  with 
too  much  salt  in  them.  Gordon  did  not  like]  them 
and  he  said  so. 

Sister  Sue  promptly  agreed  with  him.  She  repeated 
what  she  had  said  to  May  the  afternoon  before  about 
cooking,  only  adding  a  great  deal  more  to  it,  and 
reiterating  again  how  she  hated  it. 

Gordon  actually  blinked  a  little  at  the  vehemence 
of  some  of  his  sister's  remarks;  but  he  said  no  more 
about  the  rolls.  Later,  just  as  he  was  finishing,  how- 
ever, he  did  remark  that  he  did  wish  there  was  some- 
thing, something,  in  that  deadest  of  dead  towns  that 
a  fellow  could  do. 

Sister  Sue  took  up  the  matter  at  once  with  the 
deepest  of  sympathy.  She  said  it  was  too  bad.  It  was 
a  shame.  And  that  she  certainly  never  saw  such  a 
forlorn  place,  and  she  hated  it,  too,  and  would  give 
anything  to  get  away  from  it.  That  she  sympathized 
with  him  thoroughly. 

At  the  word  "sympathized"  May  sat  suddenly 
erect  in  her  chair. 

"Sister  Sue!"  she  cried  accusingly.  "Is  that  what 
you've  been  doing?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  In  spite  of  herself,  Sister 
Sue's  lips  twitched. 


WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER?  105 

"Gordon!"  May  turned  now  to  her  brother. 
"She's  been  sympathizing  with  us;  that's  what 
she's  been  doing  —  sympathizing  with  us!" 

"Oh,  that?"  Sister  Sue  interposed  quickly,  cheer- 
fully. "Why,  yes,  of  course  that's  what  I've  been 
doing.  You  said  you  wanted  me  to,  you  know  — 
that 't  would  be  lots  easier  for  you  if  I  would.  And  of 
course  it's  lots  easier  for  me — to  spit  right  out  my 
feelings,  you  know;  and  as  long  as  you  want  me  to  — " 

"Want  you  to!"  cut  in  two  dismayed  voices. 
Then  Gordon  exploded :  "  Well,  by  George,  if  that 's 
what  you've  been  doing  — "  He  stopped  helplessly. 

"Yes,  if  that's  what  you've  been  doing,"  chimed 
in  May;  and  she  stopped,  also. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  then  at  Sister  Sue.  Sister 
Sue's  lips  were  still  twitching.  There  was  a  moment's 
hesitation,  then  all  three  together  they  laughed. 

There  was  nothing  more  said;  but  for  at  least  one 
entire  day  the  Gilmore  family  were  astonishingly 
well  content  with  their  lot  if  appearances  counted  for 
anything.  Even  in  the  days  that  immediately  fol- 
lowed, when  the  old  fretful  words  would  come  back 
to  the  lips  of  Gordon  and  May  —  as  come  they  most 
emphatically  did  —  it  needed  only  a  demure  "Well, 
I  surely  do  sympathize  with  you,  I  do,"  from  the  lips 
of  Sister  Sue  to  bring  about  a  prompt  and  significant 
silence  accompanied,  if  in  the  case  of  Gordon,  by  a 
sheepish  grin;  if  in  the  case  of  May,  by  a  half -petulant 
shrug. 

But  it  all  helped.  Even  Gordon  and  May  acknowl- 
edged that  —  to  themselves.  And  Sister  Sue  knew  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

VISITORS  AND  CONSEQUENCES 

IT  was  on  a  hot  July  day  that  Sister  Sue  received  the 
letter  from  Martin  Kent  saying  that  since  they  seemed 
so  ardently  to  want  to  see  him,  he  was  coming,  though 
he  was  still  a  little  fearful,  he  said,  lest  his  visit  be  a 
burden  to  them.  However,  he  would  come  for  the 
week-end,  arriving  Saturday  at  four  o'clock.  And  of 
course  he  was  eager  to  see  them,  as  they  would  know 
that  he  must  be.  And  he  closed  with  a  very  beautiful 
and  very  tender  sentiment  that  would  have  held  the 
eyes  of  most  girls  for  the  lingering  reading  over  and 
over  of  the  words. 

But  not  so  Sister  Sue.  Sister  Sue  barely  skimmed 
through  the  closing  paragraph  before  she  looked  up 
with  startled  eyes. 

"Martin  is  coming.  He's  coming  Saturday,"  she 
announced  hurriedly  to  her  brother  and  sister.  "But 
—  I  don't  understand.  He  writes  as  if  —  if  we  'd  been 
urging  him  to  come,  lately."  Her  eyes  went  from 
Gordon's  face  to  May's.  On  May's  they  paused,  their 
pupils  dilating  in  startled  questioning.  "May,  you 
did  n't  —  say  anything?" 

May  shrugged  her  shoulders  daintily. 

"Now,  Sister  Sue,  don't  look  so  shocked,"  she 
pouted.  "Of  course  I  did  n't  say  anything  —  much. 
I  just  wrote  him  how  lonesome  we  were." 

"Mayl" 


VISITORS  AND  CONSEQUENCES      107 

"Well,  I  guess  I've  got  a  right  to  tell  my  future 
brother-in-law  how  tired  and  worn  out  you  are  get- 
ting," bridled  May,  looking  very  superior  indeed; 
"and  that  we  were  just  stagnating  in  this  awful  place, 
and  we  'd  give  anything  to  see  a  real  man  once  more, 
and—" 

"Oh,  May!"  remonstrated  Sister  Sue  again,  falling 
back  in  her  chair  with  a  gesture  of  dismay. 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  maintained  the  younger  girl 
stoutly.  "He's  coming,  anyhow.  I  don't  care  if  you 
do  scold.  Besides,  I  should  think  you'd  want  to  see 
him.  I  would  if  he  were  engaged  to  me!" 

"Hush!  Be  still.  Of  course  I  want  to  see  him," 
protested  Sister  Sue,  "if  he  wants  to  be  seen.  Not 
otherwise.  We  don't  want  to  urge  —  unwilling  vis- 
itors, remember,"  she  finished  a  little  coldly,  as  she 
rose  to  her  feet  and  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

Martin  Kent  came  at  the  appointed  time  on  Sat- 
urday. Gordon  met  him  at  the  station.  They  came 
home  in  the  town  "bus."  Gordon  had  wanted  to  ask 
Mrs.  Kendall  for  the  car.  But  Sister  Sue  said  no, 
indeed,  no !  And  she  had  said  it  so  emphatically  that 
he  had  not  liked  to  urge  the  matter.  Mrs.  Kendall, 
besides  coming  to  the  station  after  them  on  the  day  of 
their  arrival,  had  taken  them  all  for  a  ride  two  or 
three  times  in  a  somewhat  stiff  "Of-course-I-under- 
stand,  it's-my-duty-you-know"  way  (according  to 
May),  and  she  had  told  Sister  Sue  that  she  would  be 
glad  to  lend  the  car  and  the  chauffeur  to  her  some  day 
for  calls  if  she  liked.  But  Sister  Sue  had  never  availed 
herself  of  the  privilege;  and  she  told  Gordon  that 


108  SISTER  SUE 

nothing  would  induce  her  to  ask  for  the  car  to  go  and 
meet  Martin  Kent. 

Martin  was  looking  well.  He  said  he  was  well, 
though  he  was  working  very  hard  just  now  correcting 
proofs.  The  book  was  to  come  out  in  October.  It 
was  to  be  called  "  Trixie."  He  said  that  it  was  a  won- 
derful novel.  Then  he  laughed  and  apologized  for 
being  so  conceited,  but  declared  that  it  really  was  a 
wonderful  novel,  and  had  developed  into  something 
away  beyond  his  expectations.  He  said  the  publish- 
ers thought  very  highly  of  it,  too;  and  that  they  really 
had  great  hopes  of  its  being  a  fine  success. 

Sister  Sue  said  she  was  glad,  she  was  sure.  May 
clapped  her  hands  rapturously,  and  declared  she'd 
known  all  along  it  would  be  a  success.  Gordon 
grunted  out  something,  an  indeterminate  something 
that  might  have  passed  for  almost  anything.  Mr. 
John  Gilmore  was  not  present.  He  was  out  in  the 
garden  caring  for  his  flowers.  Mr.  John  Gilmore  was 
spending  a  great  deal  of  time  in  his  garden  these  days, 
and  very  happily. 

After  Martin  Kent  told  of  his  book  he  told  of  the 
city  and  their  friends,  most  of  whom  Tiad  left  town  for 
the  summer,  he  said.  He  talked  then  of  the  new 
books  he  had  read,  and  the  new  celebrities  he  had 
met  since  the  Gilmores  had  left  Boston.  He  told 
them  of  the  invitations  he  had  had  for  the  summer 
—  charming  places,  charming  people,  seashore  and 
mountains.  But  he  said  he  was  not  going  to  accept 
any  of  them.  He  had  made  up  his  mind.  He  was 
coming  up  to  Gilmoreville  just  as  soon  as  he  could  — 


VISITORS  AND  CONSEQUENCES      109 

maybe  by  the  twentieth  —  and  stay  at  the  Inn.  He 
would  have  a  real  rest  then,  and  be  near  them,  where 
he  could  see  them  every  day. 

May  clapped  her  hands  at  this  and  drew  an  ecstatic 
sigh. 

"Oh,  Martin,  you've  saved  our  lives!"  she  gurgled. 
"It  seemed  as  if  I  just  couldn't  stand  it  all  sum- 
mer, without  somebody.  But  now  —  oh,  I  'm  so  glad ! 
Are  n't  we,  Sister  Sue?" 

"Of  course  we  are  —  if  the  gentleman  thinks  he 
can  stand  Gilmoreville ! "  There  were  two  little  red 
spots  in  Sister  Sue's  cheeks  and  an  odd  little  sparkle 
to  her  eyes;  but  her  lips  were  smiling  and  her  voice 
was  cheerfully  cordial. 

"Oh,  but  I  think  Gilmoreville  is  lovely,  and  you 
know  what  I  think  of  the  people  in  it  —  some  of 
them!"  Martin  Kent,  having  exhausted  the  subject 
of  himself  and  his  own  affairs,  was  ready  now  to  talk 
of  something  else.  "You  certainly  have  a  fine  old 
place  here." 

"You  would  n't  think  so  if  you  had  to  live  in  it," 
sniffed  May.  "No  hot  water,  no  gas,  no  electric 
lights,  no  nothing!" 

"Look  out!"  warned  Gordon.  "Sister  Sue '11  be 
sympathizing  with  you,  May." 

Martin  Kent  looked  slightly  dazed. 

"Sympathizing  with  you!  Well,  why  shouldn't 
she?"  he  demanded.  "Does  n't  —  she?" 

"Oh,  yes,  she  does,"  laughed  May. 

"You  bet  she  does,"  grinned  Gordon. 

Sister  Sue  laughed  this  time  with  them;  but  when 


110  SISTER  SUE 

Martin  Kent  asked  why  their  merriment,  not  one  of 
them  would  tell  him. 

In  the  evening,  after  supper,  Sister  Sue  and  Martin 
Kent  had  an  hour  to  themselves  on  the  vine-shaded 
veranda.  Martin  told  his  fiancee  how  he  had  missed 
her,  and  how  bare  and  empty  the  city  was  without 
her.  He  spoke  very  beautifully,  very  tenderly,  and 
he  quoted  some  exquisite  poetry  he  had  written  es- 
pecially for  her.  And  he  spoke  of  how  blissfully 
happy  they  were  going  to  be  when  they  were  married. 
He  bemoaned  the  fact  that  he  was  so  poor;  but  he 
said  that  when  his  novel  was  the  big  success  it  was 
going  to  be,  then  —  He  did  not  finish  his  sentence 
—  in  words;  but  the  kiss  he  gave  her  was  more  elo- 
quent than  any  words  could  have  been. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Martin  Kent  went  to 
church  in  the  morning  with  May  and  Gordon.  Sister 
Sue  had  to  stay  at  home  to  be  with  her  father  and  to 
get  dinner.  In  the  afternoon  May  stayed  with  her 
father  while  Sister  Sue  and  Martin  Kent  went  for  a 
walk  on  the  hill  back  of  the  house. 

They  had  a  very  beautiful  walk.  Sun,  air,  earth  — 
each  vied  with  the  other  to  be  at  its  best.  Martin 
Kent  quoted  more  exquisite  poetry,  and  even  com- 
posed some  on  the  spot  in  celebration  of  the  wonder- 
ful fact  that  they  were  together  at  last,  out  under 
God's  blue  sky.  He  talked  more,  too,  of  what  they 
would  do  when  they  were  married  and  of  how  happy 
they  would  be. 

Then  they  went  home.  Sister  Sue  had  supper  to 
get. 


THEY  HAD  A  VERY  BEAUTIFUL  WALK 


VISITORS  AND  CONSEQUENCES      111 

Early  Monday  morning  Martin  Kent  went  back  to 
Boston.  He  said  that  he  had  had  a  most  wonderful 
visit,  and  that  he  was  going  back  to  the  city  rested 
and  refreshed. 

Sister  Sue,  after  he  had  gone,  acknowledged  to 
herself  that  she  was  neither  rested  nor  refreshed.  She 
had  enjoyed  being  with  him  —  oh,  yes.  And  he  had 
said  many  beautiful  things  —  she  admitted  that. 
But  she  felt  tired  and  curiously  depressed.  She  laid 
it  partly  to  the  nerve  strain  of  preparing  meals  for 
company  with  the  inevitable  worrying  lest  they  be 
not  a  success,  and  partly  to  the  other  strain  of  trying 
to  keep  her  father  from  annoying  Martin  Kent  with 
his  presence. 

Martin  Kent  did  not  like  to  be  with  John  Gilmore. 
He  indicated  that  very  plainly.  He  did  not  like  to 
have  John  Gilmore  show  him  his  pictures  or  his 
flower-beds.  And  John  Gilmore  very  plainly  wanted 
to  do  just  those  things;  which  made  it  hard  for  Sister 
Sue.  Martin  Kent  told  Sister  Sue  that  it  was  like 
putting  a  knife  of  torture  into  his  heart  to  talk  with 
her  father  and  see  the  wreck  of  that  magnificent 
mind. 

Naturally  Sister  Sue  did  not  want  a  knife  of  tor- 
ture put  into  Martin  Kent's  heart  —  certainly  not  by 
anything  of  hers ;  so  she  had  made  every  effort  all 
through  the  visit  to  keep  the  two  men  apart.  It  had 
not  been  an  easy  task,  however,  for  John  Gilmore, 
for  some  inexplicable  reason,  took  a  very  sudden  and 
very  violent  fancy  to  Martin  Kent  at  the  outset  of 
his  visit. 


112  SISTER  SUE 

It  was  partly  because  of  this,  therefore,  Sister  Sue 
told  herself,  that  she  was  feeling  so  particularly  tired 
after  Martin  Kent's  visit.  Not  that  she  blamed  Mar- 
tin Kent  —  indeed,  no !  It  was  not  exactly  a  pleasant 
experience  to  be  in  daily  companionship  with  John 
Gilmore,  as  none  knew  better  than  she  herself. 

Sister  Sue  was  still  unrested  when  the  telegram 
came  from  Daniel  Loring.  It  came  that  afternoon, 
and  it  said  that  Mr.  Loring  would  be  in  Gilmoreville 
the  next  day  and  would  call  upon  them  at  ten  o'clock. 

Sister  Sue  immediately  felt  more  depressed  than 
ever. 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  knew  he  was  coming  soon,"  she 
sighed,  after  telling  May  of  the  contents  of  the  tele- 
gram. "But,  some  way,  I've  always  dreaded  it." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  we'll  know  more,  of  course,  then,  how  we 
stand.  We  '11  know  better  —  how  much  money  we  Ve 
got." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  how  we  can  be  any  worse  off 
than  we  are  now,"  contended  May,  with  a  pout. 

Sister  Sue  laughed. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  might  be  worse,  you  know,"  she  de- 
clared significantly,  her  eyes  flashing  a  merry  glance 
into  her  sister's  face.  "Anyhow,  whatever  it  is,  we  Ve 
got  to  stand  it,"  she  said  a  little  more  soberly  as  she 
left  the  room. 

Promptly  on  the  minute  Daniel  Loring  appeared 
the  next  morning.  Sister  Sue  met  him  alone  in  the 
living-room.  He  took  off  his  panama,  applied  his 
handkerchief  to  his  forehead  with  an  energy  that 


VISITORS  AND  CONSEQUENCES      113 

showed  his  embarrassment  as  he  remarked  that  it  was 
a  warm  day  and  that  he  hoped  he  found  them  well. 
Then,  because  he  was  a  business  man  who  used  few 
words  and  who  always  came  straight  to  the  point,  he 
said: 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  have  n't  very  good  news  for  you. 
There's  very  little  left  but  this  house.  You  have 
that,  however,  unencumbered.  And  there  is  a  small 
sum  which  will  give  you  income  enough  for  the  re- 
pairs and  taxes,  and  a  very  little  more  toward  living 
expenses,  perhaps.  That  is  all.  I'm  sorry.  I'm  very 
sorry  that  the  daughter  of  my  old  friend  — "  He  did 
not  finish  his  sentence.  He  was  blowing  his  nose 
vigorously. 

"But  what  —  are  we  going  to  do?"  faltered  the 
girl. 

"Somebody  will  have  to  —  to  earn  some  money." 

"But  how  can  I?  I  can't  leave  Father;  and  now  — 
there's  the  housework." 

Mr.  Loring  frowned  and  blew  his  nose  again. 

"Are  you  the  —  the  only  member  of  your  family 
able  to  work?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  oh,  yes."  She  spoke  with  hurried  decision. 
"You  can't  mean  Father,  of  course.  As  for  May  and 
Gordon  —  why,  Mr.  Loring,  they  are  just  counting 
on  school  and  college." 

"I'm  afraid  they'll  have  to  count  the  money  first," 
vouchsafed  the  man  grimly. 

Sister  Sue  relaxed  in  her  chair. 

"  But,  Mr.  Loring,  what  can  I  do?  Of  course  I  can 
play,  and  I  can  teach.  I  was  planning  to  —  once." 


114  SISTER  SUE 

Her  voice  broke,  then  went  on  resolutely.  "  But  all 
that  is  impossible  now.  I've  given  it  up.  I  can't 
leave  Father." 

"Your  — sister?" 

"Must  go  on  with  her  studies.  I  can't  have  her  life 
spoiled,  too.  She  is  really  very  talented.  She  wants 
to  write.  She  has  written  some,  and  has  done  beauti- 
fully. Mr.  Kent  says  so.  But  of  course  she  needs 
training.  And  I  want  her  to  have  it.  Mr.  Loring,  she 
must  have  it!  I  can't  let  her  life  be  spoiled,  like  mine. 
She  was  planning  on  entering  college  this  fall.  As  for 
Gordon  —  he  has  one  more  year  where  he  is,  and  I 
wanted  him  to  finish  there.  But  it  is  an  expensive 
school,  and  I  suppose  he  could  take  the  last  year  in 
the  High  School  here  —  I  understand  they  fit  for  col- 
lege. But,  Mr.  Loring,  Gordon  can't  —  work" 

The  man  gave  a  gesture,  half  impatient,  half  re- 
signed. 

"All  right,  all  right,  I'm  not  saying  he  can,  though 
I've  seen  boys  of  his  age —  However,  somebody's 
got  to."  He  hesitated,  then  went  on  with  obvious 
reluctance:  "Couldn't  you  teach  here,  then?  You 
would  n't  have  to  leave  your  father  to  do  that." 

Sister  Sue's  worried  face  broke  into  a  broad  smile. 
Her  eyes  twinkled. 

"Mr.  Loring,  I  don't  want  to  seem  conceited  or 
egotistical,  but  I  played  really  adult  'show  pieces' 
when  I  was  ten,  before  I  could  stretch  the  octave. 
This  spring  Signer  Bartoni  told  me  I  was  capable  of 
teaching  the  most  advanced  pupils  in  the  Conserva- 
tory, and  that  for  private  lessons  I  should  charge  five 


VISITORS  AND  CONSEQUENCES      115 

dollars  each.  Do  you  think  Susie  Smith  and  Nellie 
French,  down  the  lane  here,  would  want  me  to  teach 
them  my  kind  of  music,  or  pay  me  the  price  if  they 
did?" 

"Hm;  perhaps  not,  perhaps  not,"  murmured  the 
man,  with  a  frown. 

"Besides,  I  doubt  if  they'd  want  to  take  of  — 
me"  sighed  the  girl.  "  I  don't  think  we  're  very  popu- 
lar here,  Mr.  Loring.  They  remember  we  have  been 
rich.  We 're  poor  now.  I  doubt  if  they 'd  come,  any- 
way." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Mr.  Loring,  still  frowning,  as 
he  fumbled  for  some  papers  in  his  coat.  "I'm  afraid 
I  know  nothing  about  such  things,  nothing.  But  these 
I  do  know  about  —  and  you  '11  have  to.  So  if  you  '11 
kindly  give  me  your  attention,"  he  finished,  spread- 
ing one  of  the  folded  papers  open  for  her. 

When  Mr.  Loring  had  gone,  some  time  later,  Sister 
Sue  sat  for  a  long  time  thinking.  To  May's  questions 
and  Gordon's  she  made  scant  reply,  except  to  say  that 
it  was  rather  bad  and  they  had  very  little  to  live  on. 
What  they  were  to  do  or  how  they  were  to  do  it,  she 
refused  to  discuss. 

After  the  dinner  was  cleared  away  she  hurried  up- 
stairs to  Mrs.  Preston's. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  think  I  run  to  you  with  every  prob- 
lem," she  apologized,  a  little  ruefully,  as  she  entered 
the  room.  "But  you  see,  you  seem  to  know  every- 
thing." 

"Oh,  there's  many  that's  wiser  than  me,  an'  don't 


116  SISTER  SUE 

know  it,"  bridled  the  little  old  woman,  plainly  not 
ill-pleased;  "an'  there's  some  that  ain't  so  wise  — an* 
don't  know  that"  she  chuckled.  "But what  is  it  ter- 
day?  —  somethin'  ter  eat  or  somethin'  ter  wear?" 

"Neither  one  —  or,  rather,  it's  both,  I  suppose, 
really."  Sister  Sue  dropped  a  little  wearily  into  a 
chair.  "It's  money.  Mrs.  Preston,  do  you  know  any 
kind  of  work  that  I  can  do  at  home  here,  to  earn 
money?  Now  please  don't  say  to  do  sewing.  You 
know  how  poor  I  am  at  that,  from  the  way  I  've  had 
to  run  to  you  every  time  I  took  a  needle  in  my  hand, 
almost.  But  do  you  know  of  anything  I  can  do?" 

Mrs.  Preston  sat  suddenly  even  more  erect.  Her 
face  had  become  alight.  She  had  the  air  of  one  to 
whom  has  come  a  long-awaited  joy. 

"Sure  I  do.   You  can  teach." 

"You  don't  mean  —  music?" 

"Sure  I  mean  music!  What  else  would  I  be  mean- 
in',  an'  you  with  all  your  studyin'  an'  trainin'?"  She 
asked  the  question  a  little  aggressively. 

"But  that's  just  it,  Mrs.  Preston,  I've  had  too 
much  training,"  sighed  the  girl.  "There's  nobody 
here  that  would  want  such  advanced  instruction  or 
that  would  pay  the  price." 

"Well,  I  like  that!"  The  little  old  lady  sat  back 
in  her  chair  and  eyed  her  visitor  with  whimsical 
exasperation.  "An'  so  because  they  don't  want  angel 
cakes  you  refuse  to  teach  'em  how  to  make  bread?" 

"I  —  what?" 

"Humph!  How  would  you  have  liked  it  if  when 
you  come  askin'  me  how  ter  stir  up  a  tin  o'  biscuit, 


VISITORS  AND  CONSEQUENCES      117 

I  had  told  yer  with  my  nose  in  the  air  that  I  never 
teached  nothin'  but  weddin'  cake." 

Sister  Sue  laughed  merrily. 

"And  am  I  —  like  that?"  she  demanded. 

'*  I  think  you  be.  You  can  teach  scales  an'  them  five- 
finger  things,  could  n't  ye?"  queried  the  old  woman. 

"Why,  y-yes,  I  suppose  so,"  admitted  the  girl 
doubtfully,  though  her  eyes  were  still  merry. 

"Well,  then;  an'  I  suppose  you'd  take  one  dollar 
if  you  could  n't  get  five,  wouldn't  ye? —  'specially  if 
ye  got  enough  of  'em  ter  more  'n  make  up  for  the  five 
kind." 

"Why,  y-yes,  of  course,"  conceded  the  girl.  "But 
—  who  would  come  to  me  for  lessons?" 

"Susie  Smith  an'  Julia  Small  an'  Nellie  French  an' 
Millie  Sargent  an'  Charlie  Burt  an'  — " 

"But,  Mrs.  Preston,  you  speak  as  if  you  knew" 
interrupted  the  girl. 

"I  do  know.  They're  just  waitin'  ter  come  when 
you  say  the  word;  an'  at  a  dollar  a  lesson  an'  glad 
ter  pay  it,  'cause  they  feel  they  're  gettin'  somethin' 
special  —  from  you." 

"  But  —  but  —  "  The  girl  was  on  her  feet  now,  her 
eyes  shining,  but  incredulous. 

"An'  the  see-leci  men  want  you  for  the  graded 
schools  here  in  Gilmoreville,  ter  teach  music  in  'em; 
an'  Mr.  Spencer,  down  ter  the  Junction,  he  wants  you 
one  day  a  week  when  school  opens  there,"  went  on 
Mrs.  Preston  calmly,  ignoring  the  dazed  exclamations 
of  the  girl  across  the  room.  "Oh,  you'll  have  plenty 
ter  do  when  you  say  the  word,"  she  nodded. 


118  SISTER  SUE 

"But  —  but  how  can  I,  with  the  housework  and 
all?"  Sister  Sue  dropped  back  into  her  chair,  the 
elation  all  gone  from  her  eyes. 

As  if  by  the  same  signal  the  little  old  woman  sat 
more  erect  again. 

"My  daughter  Delia  —  her  Tom's  dead,  now,  an' 
left  her  with  little  Paul,  so  she 's  free  —  Delia,  she  'd 
like  ter  come  an'  do  yer  work  fer  ye,  an'  she'd  do  it 
cheap,  too,  if  you'd  be  willin'  ter  let  the  baby  play  out 
in  the  back  yard  here.  An'  she  could  help  me  some, 
spare  time,  I  know.  I  need  her,  too.  I  ain't  so  young 
as  I  was  once.  So  her  pay  would  n't  be  so  high  fer  you, 
an*  she'd  more'n  save  her  wages,  anyway  (compared 
ter  your  way  of  doin'  things!),  usin'  up  odds  an'  ends 
an'  cookin'  economical." 

Sister  Sue  was  sitting  forward  now  with  her  eyes 
frankly  staring. 

"But,  Mrs.  Preston,  you  sound  as  if  —  if  you'd  got 
this  all  arranged  beforehand ! " 

"I  have.  They  come  ter  me  first  fer  the  lessons, 
askin'  if  you  would  give  'em,  I  mean;  then  I  thought 
up  the  rest,  about  Delia  an'  her  workin'  here.  I  knew 
you'd  have  ter  have  some  one,  with  all  that  ter  do." 

"But  why  have  n't  you  said  anything  to  me  of  all 
this?" 

"I  was  waitin'." 

"Waiting!" 

"Yes;  till  you  come  ter  yer  senses.  I  knew  some 
day  you'd  see  how  foolish  you  was  to  bury  your  light 
under  a  bushel  basket  like  this.  An'  I  knew  you'd 
want  some  money,  too.  An',  besides,  I  suspected 


VISITORS  AND  CONSEQUENCES      119 

sometime  you'd  get  tired  of  —  of  eatin'  bread  with 
that  gravy." 

"Bread?  —  gravy?"  frowned  Sister  Sue. 

The  little  old  woman  nodded  her  head,  her  shrewd 
eyes  twinkling. 

"Yes.  I  suspected  some  day  you'd  be  wantin' 
somebody  else  ter  make  yer  beefsteak-pies  fer  ye,  so 
you  could  eat  the  crust." 

"Oh!"  laughed  Sister  Sue.  "Oh,  ho!"  Then  she 
pouted  with  a  playful  grimace:  "I  can  cook  better 
than  that  now;  indeed  I  can,  Mrs.  Preston!" 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  But  there  ain't  much  money  in 
it,  just  the  same,  is  there?  Well,  there  is  in  my  plan. 
An'  this  minute  there 's  at  least  eight  all  ready,  with 
the  dollar  right  in  their  fists,  waitin'.  An'  I  don't 
know  how  much  the  schools  '11  pay." 

Sister  Sue  clapped  her  hands  and  drew  a  long 
breath  quite  after  the  fashion  of  her  sister  May. 

"And  you  planned  this  all  out.  You've  been  plan- 
ning it  all  this  time,  and  never  let  me  know!" 

"Yes."  The  little  old  woman's  eyes  sparkled  with 
an  excitement  almost  as  great  as  was  the  girl's. 
"Susie  Smith's  mother  came  first.  She  asked  did 
I  s'pose  you  would  teach  Susie.  She  did  n't  like  to 
ask  you  herself.  An*  she  told  me  that  Nellie  wanted  to 
an'  Julia  Small,  also.  That  gave  me  the  idea.  But  I 
said  wait.  I  told  'em  ter  say  nothin'  ter  no  one.  An' 
so  we  waited.  I  knew  the  time  would  come,  just  as 
it  has  ter-day,  when  you'd  want  ter  be  earnin'  some 
money." 

"Susie  Smith,  Nellie  French,  and  Julia  Small," 


CHAPTER  IX 

FOUNDATIONS 

BY  the  twentieth  of  July,  when  Martin  Kent  arrived 
at  the  Inn,  Sister  Sue's  class  was  well  established; 
and  it  was  known  as  "  Sister  Sue's  class,"  too.  Some- 
times the  children  forgot  and  even  addressed  her  as 
"Miss  Sister  Sue,"  much  to  Sister  Sue's  amusement 
and  their  own  blushing  confusion.  Sister  Sue  herself 
should  have  become  accustomed  to  this  title  by  this 
time,  for  so  hi  the  habit  was  her  family  of  speaking, 
not  only  to  her,  but  of  her,  as  "Sister  Sue,"  that 
others  fell  naturally  into  the  way  of  it  also.  Gilmore- 
ville  had  always  known  her  as  "Sister  Sue,"  for  from 
babyhood  May  and  Gordon  had  answered  most 
questions  with  "I  don't  know.  Sister  Sue '11  tell  you. 
She  knows."  Gilmoreville  now,  therefore,  was  taking 
lessons  of,  not  Miss  Susanna  Gilmore,  but  Sister 
Sue. 

Martin  Kent  did  not  like  Sister  Sue's  class  in  piano- 
forte playing.  He  found  that  out  very  soon.  He  had 
not  been  there  a  week  before  he  said  so  to  his  fiancee. 

"I  don't  get  a  minute,  hardly,  to  see  you  —  not  a 
minute,  only  evenings,"  he  complained. 

"I  know  it.  But,  Martin,  I  have  to.  Don't  you 
see?  And  only  think  of  all  the  money  I  'm  earning  — 
peeling  those  potatoes." 

"Doing  —  what?" 

Sister  Sue  laughed  and  told  the  story  of  her  inter- 


FOUNDATIONS  123 

view  with  Mrs.  Preston  —  a  story  which  Martin  Kent 
chuckled  over  and  thoroughly  appreciated. 

"She's  a  character  and  no  mistake,"  he  nodded. 
"But  I  notice  it  was  you  who  likened  your  work  to 
peeling  potatoes  for  that  banquet." 

"It  was.  I  did."  She  smiled,  but  she  sighed,  too. 
"And  it  is  peeling  potatoes,  Martin,  and  that  kitchen 
is  mighty  stupid  and  lonesome  when  you  can't  help 
thinking  all  the  time  of  the  banquet-hall  with  all  its 
light  and  laughter  and  music  and  excitement!  You 
see,  the  children  —  Martin,  they  are  awful.  Why, 
they  don't  know  a  scale  from  an  octave,  some  of 
them !  And  it  is  so  hard  to  hear  them  singsong  their 
one-two-three,  one-two-three,  when  —  when  —  oh,  I 
do  so  want  to  be  carving  that  turkey!" 

"And  that's  what  you  should  be  doing." 

"Oh,  but  you  forget  those  foundations,"  she  re- 
minded him  with  a  shrug.  "And,  of  course,  they  are 
necessary;  only  I  —  I  happen  to  be  one  that  would 
prefer  to  build  the  cupolas." 

"I  don't  blame  you!  It's  a  shame!"  he  declared. 
"But  you  just  wait  till  my  book  gets  to  going.  We 
won't  be  —  er  —  peeling  potatoes  then." 

She  laughed  and  colored  again. 

"  But  meanwhile  I  am  earning  money,"  she  said. 
"  I  want  May  to  go  on  with  her  studies.  Gordon  — 
we  've  decided  not  to  try  to  send  him  back  to  his  old 
school.  He'll  stay  and  graduate  here.  Gilmoreville 
has  a  very  fine  High  School,  I  am  told.  After  that, 
we'll  see.  I'm  hoping  for  college.  But  May  —  May 
must  go,  that 's  all.  You  know  what  talent  she 's  got." 


124  SISTER  SUE 

"Yes,  I  know,  and  I'm  going  to  help  her  this  sum- 
mer. We  were  talking  this  morning  while  you  were 
laboring  with  that  little  Smith  girl.  May  read  me 
that  last  little  story  she's  written.  It's  very  good." 

"  Is  it  really?  Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  It  seemed  good  — 
to  me." 

"Yes.  Oh,  it  needs  pruning  and  condensing,  and 
she  has  some  bad  habits  that  need  correction.  And, 
as  I  said,  I'm  going  to  try  to  help  her  this  summer. 
We're  planning  to  have  a  session  every  morning 
on  the  piazza  —  *  First  Aid  to  Short-Story  Writing,' 
while  you're  teaching." 

"Oh,  Martin,  how  perfectly  splendid!  That's  aw- 
fully good  of  you.  And  it'll  help  her  so  much." 

"She  seems  to  think  so." 

"Of  course  it  will.  I  hope  she  appreciates  it.  And 
for  you  to  take  your  time  like  that,  and  for  a  tyro  like 
May!  Oh,  well,"  —  she  smiled  whimsically,  —  "you'll 
be  peeling  potatoes  now,  Martin ! " 

Martin  Kent  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Perhaps.  Still,  it  is  n't  proved  yet,  you  know, 
that  I  —  I  could  carve  the  turkey  if  I  wanted  to.  But 
you  just  wait  till  'Trixie'  is  out.  You  wait!" 

"Oh,  we're  waiting,"  she  retorted  a  bit  saucily. 
Then,  with  sweet  gravity,  she  added:  "But  I  do  think 
it's  dear  of  you,  Martin,  to  help  May;  and  I  love  you 
for  it." 

"I'm  glad  you  love  me  for  something,  you  little 
will-o'-the-wisp,"  he  sighed  plaintively.  "Do  you 
know  what's  going  to  happen?  Some  day  I'm  going 
to  bunch  the  whole  dozen  of  those  tiresome  one-two- 


FOUNDATIONS  125 

three-fourers,  and  dump  them  into  the  river.  Then 
while  they're  scrambling  out  and  drying  themselves 
off,  I'll  see  if  /  can  have  you  a  little  while  to  myself!" 

"But  you  do  have  me  evenings  and  Sundays,  and 
some  of  the  time  days,"  she  protested  with  a  merry 
laugh. 

"Oh,  yes,  some  of  the  time  days  —  when  you're 
eating  your  dinner,  for  instance." 

"Well,  anyhow,  they're  better  dinners  than  they 
used  to  be  —  those  you  've  tried.  Now,  are  n't  they?  " 
she  challenged. 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  say  that,  and  to  the  former 
cook?  Not  much!"  he  fenced. 

"Well,  perhaps  it  would  n't  be  quite  safe,"  she 
smiled.  "But  we  do  think  Delia's  a  splendid  cook. 
And  she's  such  a  comfort  in  lots  of  ways!  Oh,  things 
are  beautifully  fixed  up  now." 

Things  did,  indeed,  seem  to  be  "beautifully  fixed 
up"  at  the  Gilmores'  those  July  days.  Delia,  in  the 
kitchen,  gave  them  good,  nourishing  food  at  a  frac- 
tion of  what  the  inexperienced  Sister  Sue  had  been 
spending  for  the  table.  Moreover,  the  wages  she 
asked  were  not  large.  Did  she  not  have  much  time  to 
give  to  her  mother,  and  was  not  little  Paul  allowed 
the  glorious  freedom  of  that  wonderful  back  yard? 

John  Gilmore  was  better  physically  than  he  had 
been  at  all  since  the  catastrophe.  Mentally  he  was 
unchanged.  He  still  found  his  chief  delight  in  his 
picture-cutting  and  his  jackstraw-playing,  though 
just  now  his  garden  was  running  a  close  second  in  his 
favor,  and  he  was  spending  more  and  more  of  the 


126  SISTER  SUE 

long  hours  digging  and  weeding  and  watering,  all  of 
which  pleased  and  relieved  Sister  Sue  very  much; 
when  he  was  in  the  garden  she  felt  that  he  was  safe 
and  happy.  More  than  that,  she  knew  that  he  was 
not  annoying  Martin  Kent,  or  any  one  else,  with  his 
gently  insistent  questions. 

Gordon  was  away  camping.  A  school  friend  (sup- 
plemented by  the  mother)  had  sent  him  an  invita- 
tion; and  Sister  Sue,  upon  investigation,  had  given 
cordial  consent. 

May  was  much  less  fretful  these  days.  With  college 
a  possible  prospect,  her  present  surroundings  seemed 
more  endurable;  besides,  since  Martin  Kent  had 
come  there  was  the  wonderful  inspiration  of  his  en- 
couraging assistance  in  her  short-story  writing.  He 
usually  gave  up  the  entire  forenoon  to  her  now, 
greatly  to  her  joy  and  appreciation.  Rainy  days  they 
sat  behind  the  screen  of  vines  on  the  veranda;  but  on 
pleasant  days  they  nearly  always  went  up  into  the 
grove  on  the  hill  back  of  the  house,  or  over  to  "Sunset 
Rock"  on  Flanders  Hill  —  anywhere,  so  as  to  get 
away  from  the  tiresome  tum-tum-tum,  tum-tum- 
tum  of  those  lessons  through  the  parlor  windows. 

As  for  Sister  Sue  herself  —  Sister  Sue,  too,  was 
happier  than  she  had  been  since  the  day  her  father 
was  brought  home  unconscious;  happier  not  only  be- 
cause the  members  of  her  family  were  obviously  more 
contented,  but  happier  on  her  own  account.  Disa- 
greeable and  tedious  though  her  work  was  at  times, 
it  was  yet  growing  in  interest.  She  found  herself 
eagerly  watching  for  improvement  in  her  young  pu- 


FOUNDATIONS  187 

pils,  and  very  proud  and  gratified  when  she  found  it. 
Besides,  there  were  coming  to  her  now  regularly  three 
or  four  older  girls  from  a  neighboring  town,  and  Anna- 
belle  Whipple,  of  Gilmoreville.  These  girls  were  more 
advanced,  and  two  of  them  had  real  talent.  Sister 
Sue  was  finding  keen  pleasure  in  the  hours  spent  with 
them. 

With  it  all  she  was  very  busy.  The  number  of  her 
pupils  was  increasing  rapidly,  and  she  was  learning 
to  fit  them  in,  one  after  another,  with  no  lost  time 
between.  The  money  that  came  in  Sister  Sue  counted 
greedily,  questioning  always,  was  there  going  to  be 
enough  to  send  May  to  her  beloved  college?  She  had 
her  fears.  And  yet  Mr.  Loring  had  said  that  there 
would  be  partly  enough  to  live  on,  anyway,  and  if 
they  were  very  economical  — 

But  Sister  Sue  did  not  let  her  mind  dwell  on  this. 
She  would  work,  and  work  hard.  She  would  procure 
all  the  pupils  she  could,  and  there  were  the  schools  in 
the  autumn,  besides. 

In  spite  of  her  increasing  number  of  pupils,  Sister 
Sue  always  found  time  to  see  that  her  father  was 
contented  and  well  cared  for.  That  he  was  so  well 
physically  made  her  burdens  in  this  direction  much 
lighter.  Now  that  Martin  Kent  had  come  there  was 
a  new  claimant  for  her  time,  one  that  refused  to  be  de- 
nied and  whom  she  did  not  wish  to  deny.  It  was  very 
pleasant,  after  the  long  day  of  teaching,  to  be  soothed 
and  comforted  and  coddled  a  little,  perhaps,  until 
she  was  rested.  It  was  very  delightful  to  sit  on  the 
veranda  through  the  long  July  twilights  and  talk,  or 


128  SISTER  SUE 

sit  quietly,  as  the  mood  willed,  with  a  companion 
whose  sympathy  was  so  nicely  attuned  that  it  made 
no  difference  which  she  did.  Martin  Kent  was  really 
a  comfort  these  days.  He  was  tender,  tactful,  and 
sympathetic,  full  of  fun  and  good  cheer,  with  always 
something  interesting  to  say.  It  was  a  particularly 
restful  companionship  after  a  long  day  of  jangling 
discords  and  nerve- wearing  "No,  no,  that  is  not 
right.  It  should  be,  'One-two-three-four;  one- two- 
three-four;  one- two-three-four.' >: 

And  there  was  still  her  piano.  She  had  a  good  one 
now.  True,  it  was  a  rented  instrument,  and  it  was 
not  an  expensive  one;  but  it  was  in  good  tune  and  of 
fairly  good  tone.  At  all  events,  it  was  much  better 
than  the  "tinkling  cymbal"  now  remaining  closed 
and  silent  below  the  framed  coffin-plate  in  the  corner 
across  the  room;  and  it  responded  with  some  measure 
of  satisfaction  to  the  mood  that  was  on  her. 

And  this  —  as  well  as  all  the  rest  —  helped. 


CHAPTER  X 

OLD  HOME  WEEK 

GILMOREVILLE  was  to  have  an  Old  Home  Week,  be- 
ginning the  last  Monday  in  August.  Mrs.  French, 
the  Chairman  of  the  Committee  for  Making  Our 
Old  Home  Week  a  Big  Success,  called  upon  Sister 
Sue  early  in  the  month  to  ask  a  great  favor,  as  she 
termed  it. 

She  said  that  they  were  to  have  an  entertainment 
in  a  huge  tent  on  the  Common  the  third  day  for  the 
double  object  of  celebrating  Old  Home  Week  and  of 
procuring  funds  for  their  new  town  building  so  greatly 
needed.  She  came  to  ask  if  Sister  Sue  would  be  so 
good  as  to  play  one  of  her  "prettiest  pieces";  and 
would  also  the  young  man  at  the  Inn,  Mr.  Kent,  she 
believed  his  name  was,  read  a  story.  She  understood 
that  he  wrote  them. 

Sister  Sue  smiled;  but  she  looked  over  her  shoulder 
a  bit  furtively  to  make  sure  that  the  young  gentle- 
man at  the  Inn  named  Kent  was  not  within  hearing 
distance.  Then  she  asked  Mrs.  French  to  tell  her  a 
little  more  about  the  affair. 

Mrs.  French  was  very  glad  to  do  this.  She  was 
having  really  a  perfectly  awful  job,  she  said,  and  the 
next  time  they  wanted  a  chairman  for  any  of  their 
old  committees  they  might  look  somewhere  else.  She 
should  n't  take  it.  That  was  sure.  But  she  was  in  it 
now,  and  she'd  got  to  go  through  with  it,  of  course. 


130  SISTER  SUE 

"But  just  what  is  it  that  you're  trying  to  do?" 
asked  Sister  Sue. 

"Well,  first,  of  course,  we're  trying  to  make  Old 
Home  Week  a  Big  Success.  We're  trying  to  get 
everybody  back  here.  And,  really,  we  have  some  very 
celebrated  people,  you  know,  who  used  to  live  here: 
Cy  Bellows,  the  ball-player,  and  Miss  Kate  Farnum,» 
the  novelist,  and  Viola  Sanderson.  She  sings,  you 
know  —  in  Grand  Opera,  too,  I  think,  in  New  York, 
and  everywhere.  And  Mrs.  Kendall's  boy;  you  know 
he's  a  perfectly  wonderful  violinist.  Well,  we've 
written  them  to  come.  And  of  course  we've  written 
all  the  others,  too  —  everybody  who  used  to  live  here. 
You  folks  would  have  got  a  letter  if  you  had  n't 
already  come  here,"  she  beamed. 

"Thank  you,"  smiled  Sister  Sue,  trying  to  banish 
from  her  thoughts  the  quick  vision  of  her  father  as  he 
used  to  be. 

"Then,  of  course,  we  had  to  think  how  to  celebrate, 
specially  Wednesday  —  that's  going  to  be  our  big 
day.  Some  wanted  speeches.  Some  wanted  just  to 
feed  'em  with  banquets.  The  men  wanted  to  get  up 
a  ball-game  to  amuse  'em;  and  some  of  the  women 
thought  a  sale  would  be  nicest.  You  see,  we  wanted 
to  make  some  money  for  the  new  town  hall  if  we 
could.  The  young  folks,  they  wanted  a  dance,  of 
course.  You  can  imagine  it  was  an  awful  mess.  No- 
body wanted  the  same  thing,  and  some  of  us,  who 
were  wiser,  knew  we'd  got  to  be  careful  what  we  did 
have,  or  else  the  Kendalls  and  Whipples  and  all  that 
set  would  n't  come  near  it." 


OLD  HOME  WEEK  131 

She  paused  for  breath,  and  Sister  Sue  murmured  a 
sympathetic  "  You  must  be  tired,  indeed." 

"I  should  say  I  was!  Well,  we  talked  it  over,  and 
we  finally  decided.  We  'd  have  a  big  tent  on  the  Com- 
mon, and  we'd  have  a  banquet  at  noon.  Old  Homers 
—  the  folks  from  out  of  town,  you  know,  that  used  to 
live  here  —  need  n't  pay  anything.  The  rest  of  us  — 
folks  that  live  here,  and  just  sight-seers  from  other 
towns  —  we  'd  pay  thirty-five  cents  a  head.  Some 
said  a  quarter;  but  we're  going  to  give  'em  a  pretty 
good  feed,  and  I  held  out  for  the  thirty-five.  In  the 
evening  we  '11  all  have  a  dance  —  in  the  same  tent,  of 
course.  And  in  the  afternoon  we  '11  have  a  show  and 
charge  admission  —  twenty-five  cents.  That's  when 
we  want  you  and  the  young  gentleman  from  the  Inn. 
And  we  did  think  maybe  of  having  my  Nellie  and 
some  of  the  rest  of  your  music-scholars  play.  But  I 
don't  know  as  that  would  be  a  good  idea.  Of  course, 
we  could  n't  ask  'em  all,  and  that  would  make  the 
others  mad.  So  probably  that  would  n't  do.  Better 
stick  to  you  and  Mr.  Kent,  and  maybe  the  church 
choirs  to  sing." 

Through  the  window  came  the  sound  of  Martin 
Kent's  voice  on  the  veranda,  and  again  Sister  Sue 
looked  fearfully  over  her  shoulder  in  his  direction. 
Then  she  turned  toward  her  visitor. 

"Mrs.  French,  while  you've  been  talking  I've  been 
thinking,"  she  began  briskly;  "and  I've  got  an  idea." 

Mrs.  French  fell  back  in  her  chair. 

"My  land,  Sister  Sue!  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm 
sure,  and  no  offense  meant,  Miss  —  Miss  Gilmore, 


132  SISTER  SUE 

but  we  always  think  of  you  as  Sister  Sue,"  she  cor- 
rected herself  a  little  breathlessly.  "But,  please, 
please  don't  suggest  anything  else!  We've  thrashed 
out  everything;  and  I  worked  a  whole  hour  last  night 
to  get  them  settled  down  on  this." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  not  going  to  suggest  anything  else," 
calmed  Sister  Sue  hurriedly.  "It's  only  a  little  addi- 
tion that  I  want  to  suggest  to  your  plans.  Why,  Mrs. 
French,  you've  got  the  chance  of  a  lifetime  right  in 
your  fingers.  Did  n't  you  know  that?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Mrs.  French's  voice  and 
manner  were  still  doubtful,  still  a  bit  aggressive. 

"  You  want  your  special  Old  Home  Day  to  be  a  big, 
big  success,  don't  you?" 

"We  do." 

"And  you  want  very  much  to  get  some  money. 
Isn't  that  so?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes!"  spoken  with  great  fervor. 

"Well,  then,  listen!"  Sister  Sue  was  all  excitement 
now.  "You  can  make  it  the  biggest  kind  of  a  day  this 
town,  or  any  other  town  anywhere  around  here,  ever 
had;  and  you  can  get  lots  of  money,  besides." 

"My  land!  How?" 

"Write  to  your  ball-player  and  opera-singer  and 
novelist  and  violinist,  and  tell  them  that  Gilmore- 
ville  wants  an  Old  Home  Day  that  will  make  the 
whole  State  —  yes,  the  whole  country  —  sit  up  and 
take  notice;  and  that  you  can  do  it  if  they  will  come 
back  home  for  the  day  and  give  to  their  old  home 
folks  a  few  hours  of  their  time  and  their  talent,  and 
let  Gilmoreville  show  how  proud  it  is  of  its  illustrious 


OLD  HOME  WEEK  133 

sons  and  daughters,  and  let  the  outside  world  realize 
what  it  owes  to  Gilmoreville." 

"My,  don't  that  sound  just  grand!"  breathed  Mrs. 
French. 

"Then  tell  them  what  you  want.  Tell  them  you 
are  going  to  have  a  big  tent,  and  you  want  Viola 
Sanderson  to  sing,  and  Miss  Farnum  to  read  one  of 
her  stories,  and  Mr.  Kendall  to  play  his  violin.  And 
tell  the  ball-player  that  you  are  going  to  have  a  ball- 
game,  and  if  he  will  only  come  and  pitch  for  you 
the  town  of  Gilmoreville  won't  be  able  to  hold  the 
multitudes  that  will  pour  in  from  the  whole  country 
around." 

"My  land's  sake!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  French,  her 
eyes  almost  popping  from  her  head. 

"Now  is  where  the  money  comes  in,"  went  on  Sis- 
ter Sue,  showing  scarcely  less  excitement.  "With  Cy 
Bellows  for  your  ball-game,  and  with  Viola  Sander- 
son, Kate  Farnum,  and  Donald  Kendall  for  your  en- 
tertainment, you  can  charge  any  old  price  you  want, 
and  they  '11  pay  it  and  be  glad  to.  And  they  '11  come 
from  miles  and  miles  around,  for  of  course  you'll  ad- 
vertise it.  With  such  drawing  cards  as  you've  got, 
you  won't  have  to  worry  about  anything  except  how 
you're  going  to  take  care  of  the  crowds  when  they 
get  here." 

Mrs.  French  drew  a  long  breath  of  ecstasy. 

"My!  But  will  they  do  it  — Mr.  Kendall,  and 
them  others?  Will  they  come  and  play  and  sing  and 
read,  and  all  that?  Of  course  we  could  pay  'em." 

Sister  Sue  smiled.  Her  lips  twitched. 


134  SISTER  SUE 

"I  doubt  it  —  and  you  would  if  you  knew  the 
prices  they're  in  the  habit  of  receiving.  But  I  think 
they'll  come  if  possible.  I'm  sure  they  will  if  you 
put  it  up  to  them  right  —  appeal  to  their  patriotism 
and  their  love  for  the  old  home  town  that  gave  them 
birth.  Tell  them  how  proud  Gilmoreville  is  of  them. 
And  don't  deceive  them.  Let  them  know  what  their 
presence  is  going  to  mean  from  a  money  point  of 
view.  Tell  them  frankly  that,  in  addition  to  all  the 
sentiment  and  glory  of  the  occasion,  they  can,  by 
coming,  do  a  real  and  lasting  service  to  the  old  home 
town  by  enabling  you  to  raise  the  money  for  the  much- 
needed  town  building." 

"Oh,  my,  if  we  only  could ! "  breathed  Mrs.  French. 

"But  you  can!  I'm  sure  you  can!" 

"  We  could  n't.  We'd  never  be  able  to  write  'em 
so  they'd  come.  Oh,  Miss  —  Miss  Gilmore,  you  do  it, 
please  do  it.  You  will  write  'em,  won't  you?  Honestly, 
we  'd  make  an  awful  mess  of  it  if  we  tried  to.  You  will 
do  it?"  she  pleaded. 

"Why,  y-yes,  I'll  do  it,"  promised  Sister  Sue,  after 
a  moment's  hesitation.  "But  we  must  do  it  right  away, 
at  once.  We  have  n't  quite  three  weeks  as  it  is.  You  '11 
have  to  get  the  names  and  addresses  for  me." 

"I  will.  I'll  go  straight  now  and  get  them!"  cried 
Mrs.  French,  springing  to  her  feet.  "And  I'll  send 
Nellie  right  back  with  them,  so  you  can  write  to- 
night. And,  oh  — "  she  turned  when  almost  at  the 
door —  "of  course  you'll  play,  too,  and  —  and  the 
young  gentleman  at  the  Inn  will  read?"  The  intona- 
tion of  her  voice  made  it  a  question. 


OLD  HOME  WEEK  135 

Sister  Sue  shook  her  head. 

"You  wouldn't  want  Mr.  Kent,  anyway;  he 
was  n't  born  in  Gilmoreville.  I  was,  I  know,  but  I 
—  I  'm  not  a  celebrity.  I  'm  only  the  music-teacher 
that  teaches  the  children  down  at  the  village.  That 
would  look  pretty  on  your  programme  with  Viola 
Sanderson  and  Donald  Kendall,  would  n't  it?  And 
when  people  asked, '  Who 's  that? '  and  you  had  to  tell 
them  the  truth!  Nonsense!  Of  course  I  shan't  play." 
Her  voice  was  not  quite  steady,  but  she  laughed 
lightly,  and  her  eyes  were  very  bright  as  Mrs.  French 
held  out  her  hand  in  good-bye. 

"But  you'll  write  those  letters!  You'll  do  that 
part!"  cried  Mrs.  French.  "And,  oh,  thank  you  so 
much,  Sister  Sue,  for  giving  us  such  a  splendid  idea. 
You  wait  till  I  tell  the  rest!"  And  she  hurried  away 
without  even  a  suggestion  of  an  apology  for  that 
"Sister  Sue." 

But  the  Chairman  of  the  Committee  for  Making 
Our  Old  Home  Week  a  Big  Success  did  not  know  that 
she  had  said  "Sister  Sue."  For  that  matter,  neither 
did  Sister  Sue  herself  know  it.  Sister  Sue,  once  alone, 
had  gone  straight  to  the  piano.  The  next  minute  runs 
and  trills  and  crashing  chords  told  (had  one  but 
known)  that  Sister  Sue  was  trying  to  fill  her  ears 
with  something  other  than  certain  clamorous  calls  of 
"Encore!  Encore!  Susanna  Gilmore!  Encore!" 

Sister  Sue  went  out  on  to  the  veranda  then  and 
sat  with  May  and  Martin  Kent  till  Nellie  French 
appeared  with  the  promised  names  and  addresses; 
then  she  excused  herself  and  went  to  her  room  to 


136  SISTER  SUE 

write  the  letters  upon  which  hung  so  many  hopes. 
With  all  the  skill  and  tact  and  persuasion  at  her  com- 
mand, she  made  known  what  those  hopes  were;  and 
begged  for  an  early  reply. 

The  letters  finished,  she  took  them  downstairs  to 
the  veranda  where  Martin  Kent  was  waiting  to  mail 
them  for  her. 

"Well,  it  did  n't  take  you  long!"  exclaimed  May. 

"Oh,  they  were  short  and  sweet  and  straight  to  the 
point,"  laughed  Sister  Sue,  "and  of  course  they  were 
all  pretty  nearly  alike.  But  they're  gems  of  the  first 
water,  I  can  assure  you.  Listen!"  And  in  the  light 
that  came  through  the  living-room  window  she  took 
one  of  the  letters  from  its  envelope  and  read  it  aloud. 

"Bravo!"  applauded  Martin  Kent.  "That  would 
move  the  heart  of  a  stone." 

"Perhaps.  But  that's  not  saying  they'll  move  the 
hearts  of  those  celebrated  pets  of  fortune,"  shrugged 
Sister  Sue. 

"Only  think  of  having  Cy  Bellows  and  Donald 
Kendall  right  here  in  town  with  us!"  gurgled  May. 

"Donald  Kendall  would  be  flattered  that  you  in- 
cluded him  with  Cy  Bellows,  I  am  sure,"  observed 
Martin  Kent  dryly. 

May  sniffed  her  disdain. 

"If  Donald  Kendall  is  anything  like  what  he  used 
to  be,  you  couldn't  flatter  him!"  she  declared.  "Of 
all  the  conceited  creatures!  And  domineering!  You 
could  n't  say  your  soul  was  your  own  in  his  presence 
and  be  sure  to  get  away  with  it,  even  then." 

"When  was  that?"  * 


OLD  HOME  WEEK  137 

"Eight  or  ten  years  ago.  Oh,  he  could  play  then. 
He  was  wonderful." 

"How  old  was  he?" 

"Eighteen.  I  was  eight  and  Sister  Sue  ten;  and  we 
were  his  abject  slaves,  when  he  'd  let  us  be.  Most  of 
the  time,  though,  he  just  tormented  us.  He  was  an 
awful  tease.  But  it  will  be  exciting  to  see  him  again, 
though.  And  he's  so  wonderfully  famous  now!" 

"  I  want  to  hear  him  play,"  said  Sister  Sue  dreamily. 
"Young  as  I  was,  I'd  sit  by  the  hour  then  and  listen 
to  him  if  he'd  let  me.  But  he  would  n't  let  me  very 
often.  He  preferred  to  make  hideous  noises,  and 
scrape  the  bow  across  the  strings  in  weird  shrieks  and 
groans  and  cat-calls  that  sent  us  flying  with  our  hands 
to  our  ears." 

"Well,  he  can  play  now  all  right."  Martin  Kent's 
lips  came  together  a  bit  grimly. 

"You've  heard  him,  I  think  you  said." 

"  In  New  York  a  year  ago  —  yes.  He 's  wonderful." 

"What  does  he  look  like?"  This  from  May. 

"Very  much  like  a  man  who  could  be  just  such  a 
boy  as  you  describe,"  laughed  Martin  Kent.  "He's 
tall,  dark,  rather  piercing  black  eyes,  a  mouth  not  too 
accustomed  to  smiling,  and  a  temper  and  a  disposi- 
tion that  showed  up  very  plainly,  even  that  night, 
right  there." 

"You  don't  mean  during  the  concert!"  Sister  Sue's 
eyes  were  incredulous. 

"Yes.  On  the  stage.  He  had  an  encore,  and  came 
out  to  respond.  His  accompanist  came  out,  too,  and 
was  just  arranging  the  music  on  the  rack  at  the  piano, 


138  SISTER  SUE 

when  Kendall  wheeled,  walked  over  to  the  piano,  said 
a  sharp  word  or  two,  then  came  back  to  the  front  of 
the  stage  and  waited  till  the  pianist,  very  red  of  face, 
got  up  from  the  piano  and  disappeared.  When  every- 
thing was  quiet,  Kendall  raised  his  violin  and  played 
two  or  three  old  airs  entirely  unaccompanied.  I 
heard  afterwards  what  happened.  He  was  n't  suited 
with  his  accompanist.  Even  I  noticed  that  he  turned 
to  him  once  or  twice,  during  the  playing,  as  if  greatly 
annoyed.  When  it  came  to  the  encore  —  something 
that  had  been  previously  provided  for  —  he  walked 
over  and  told  the  young  fellow  his  services  would  not 
be  required." 

"How  nice!"  tittered  May. 

"  That  poor  accompanist ! "  frowned  Sister  Sue.  "But 
I  can  imagine  Donald  Kendall's  —  doing  just  that." 

"I  wonder  if  he'll  come."  May's  voice  was  half 
fearful,  half  longing. 

"I  wonder  if  any  of  them  will  come,"  sighed  Sister 
Sue,  balancing  the  letters  in  her  hand.  "I'm  begin- 
ning to  get  scared,  now  that  the  deed  is  done." 

"Oh,  it  is  n't  quite  done,"  Martin  Kent  reminded 
her.  "The  letters  are  n't  mailed  yet." 

"No,  but  they  will  be  to-night,  for  I  shall  give 
them  to  you  when  you  go,  of  course.  I'm  not  going 
to  stop  now,  you  may  be  sure,  after  all  this!" 

"If  the  rest  of  the  celebrities  are  as  sweet-tem- 
pered as  Donald  Kendall,  we'll  have  some  excite- 
ment, anyhow,"  commented  May.  "Really,  I'm  get- 
ting quite  worked-up  over  this  Old  Home  Day," 
she  laughed  as  she  got  to  her  feet.  "And  now  I'll 


OLD  HOME  WEEK  139 

leave  you  and  let  you  two  visit  together.  Poor  Mar- 
tin! He  has  n't  had  you  a  minute  to-day.  I'd  rebel 
if  I  were  in  his  place,"  she  tossed  over  her  shoulder 
as  she  disappeared  through  the  doorway. 

Martin  Kent  posted  the  letters  that  night.  Then 
came  the  days  of  waiting  for  the  answers.  The  whole 
town  was  on  the  qui  vive.  Even  Sister  May  Superior 
(as  Martin  Kent  sometimes  called  May  Gilmore) 
asked  every  day  if  Sister  Sue  had  heard  anything; 
and  Martin  himself  was  not  far  behind  her. 

Mrs.  French  telephoned  daily.  Nor  was  she  the 
only  one.  Sister  Sue,  indeed,  for  the  first  time  since 
installing  the  instrument  almost  wished  for  the  old 
telephoneless  days,  so  constantly  was  she  summoned 
to  answer  the  query:  "Have  you  heard  anything 
yet,  Miss  Sister  Sue?  " 

After  all,  they  had  not  very  long  to  wait.  The 
first  reply  came  from  Donald  Kendall,  and  it  came 
through  his  mother. 

Mrs.  Kendall  walked  over  to  the  house  one  after- 
noon at  about  five  o'clock.  Mrs.  Kendall  did  not 
often  come  to  the  Gilmores'.  She  had  called  once,  and 
Sister  Sue  had  properly  returned  the  visit.  Since 
then  she  had  not  come  to  the  house  except  to  take 
them  for  a  ride  or  two  in  the  motor  car.  May  was 
wont  to  say  that  Mrs.  Kendall  had  "duty"  written 
large  all  over  her  when  she  noticed  them  in  any  way. 
May  declared  that  her  very  air  said:  "Whereas  these 
persons  were  rich,  but  are  now  poor,  it  is  my  duty  to 
show  them  that  it  makes  no  difference  in  my  treat- 
ment of  them,  no  difference  whatever." 


140  SISTER  SUE 

"And  when  she  used  to  just  toady  to  us,  and  be 
so  pleased  if  we'd  even  notice  her!"  May  would  fin- 
ish wrathfully. 

To-day  Mrs.  Kendall  was  coldly  gracious,  with  a 
tinge  of  patronage  in  her  manner  as  Sister  Sue  greeted 
her. 

"My  son  writes  me  that  he  has  received  a  letter 
from  a  Susanna  Gilmore  requesting  him  to  play  at  the 
Gilmoreville  Old  Home  Day,"  she  began  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"Yes,  I  wrote  him  —  in  behalf  of  the  Committee." 
Sister  Sue  also  spoke  with  a  faint  smile. 

Mrs.  Kendall  stirred  in  her  chair. 

"But  I  wonder  if  you  —  I  mean  if  the  Committee 
understands  what  —  what  my  son  usually  receives 
for  a  single  appearance  at  a  concert." 

"Perhaps  not  —  until  I  told  them,"  returned  Sister 
Sue  imperturbably,  still  with  the  little  quiet  smile  on 
her  lips.  "We  understand,  of  course,  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  Mr.  Kendall  to  acquire  any  financial 
benefit  from  an  appearance  in  Gilmoreville.  But  — 
we  were  venturesome  enough  to  hope  that  he  still 
might  like  to  come." 

"He  will  come."  Mrs.  Kendall  bowed  graciously. 
Plainly  she  had  been  only  trying  to  make  Gilmore- 
ville realize  the  magnitude  of  the  favor  being  done 
them.  "  He  says  he  will  be  very  glad  to  come.  He  will 
play  two  numbers,  and  he  will  bring  his  own  accom- 
panist." (Mrs.  Kendall  wondered  a  little  at  the  sud- 
den broad  smile  that  came  to  Miss  Sue  Gilmore's 
face,  but  she  went  on  with  what  she  had  to  say.)  "My 


OLD  HOME  WEEK  141 

son  asks  me  to  tell  you  that  he  is  coming.  So  if  you 
will  consider  this  an  official  notice,  please." 

"Thank  you.  I  shall  be  glad  to  pass  on  the  in- 
formation," bowed  Sister  Sue.  "The  Committee  will 
be  gratified,  I  am  sure." 

"He  may  come  a  day  or  two  early.  He  was  plan- 
ning to  make  me  a  visit  at  about  this  time,  anyway." 

"I  see." 

For  a  few  minutes  longer  Mrs.  Kendall  chatted  of 
one  thing  and  another,  but  she  spoke  no  more  of  her 
son.  She  asked  Sister  Sue  how  she  enjoyed  teaching, 
and  if  she  did  not  find  that  it  tried  her  —  so  confin- 
ing, and  in  warm  weather,  too !  It  was  such  a  pity  that 
she  had  to  do  it.  She  inquired  for  the  health  of  the 
family,  mentioning  in  particular  poor  dear  Mr.  Gil- 
more.  Then,  a  little  later,  she  took  her  very  gracious 
leave. 

Sister  Sue  went  to  the  piano  and  played  for  quite 
ten  minutes;  then  very  quietly  she  went  out  to  the 
veranda  and  told  May  that  Donald  Kendall  was 
coming.  She  gave  the  same  piece  of  information  to 
Mrs.  French  over  the  telephone.  After  that  it  was 
not  necessary  to  tell  any  one;  though  she  still  had  to 
say,  "  Yes,  it  is  fine  that  he  is  coming,  is  n't  it?  "  to  no 
less  than  five  others  who  called  her  up  before  the  next 
morning. 

A  day  later  came  a  letter  from  Kate  Farnum's 
secretary  saying  that  Miss  Farnum  would  be  pleased 
to  come  to  Gilmoreville  as  requested,  and  would  be 
willing  to  donate  her  services  to  the  extent  of  a  thirty- 
minute  reading  from  her  latest  novel,  provided  that 


142  SISTER  SUE 

the  management  would  agree  that  the  doors  of  the  as- 
sembly room  should  be  closed  during  the  reading  and 
no  one  admitted  for  that  period  of  thirty  minutes. 

Close  upon  the  heels  of  this  epistle  came  a  letter 
from  Viola  Sanderson,  written  in  her  own  sprawling 
hand.  She  said  that  she  thought  it  was  perfectly 
lovely  for  Gilmoreville  to  plan  such  a  delightful  re- 
union of  all  the  old  home  folks,  and  she  was  anticipat- 
ing the  occasion  very  much  and  would  n't  miss  it  for 
the  world.  Then  she  signed  the  name  known  from 
one  end  of  the  continent  to  the  other  (to  say  nothing 
of  Paris,  London,  and  Berlin)  as  that  of  the  greatest 
coloratura  soprano  of  the  day. 

As  if  in  afterthought  came  the  P.S. : 

"Sing?  Bless  your  heart,  of  course  I'll  sing  for 
you  —  all  you  want  me  to!" 

"And  she's  the  biggest,  the  very  biggest  of  the 
whole  bunch!"  cried  May,  when  Sister  Sue,  as  usual, 
had  read  the  letter  to  her  and  Martin  Kent  on  the 
veranda.  "And  yet  look  how  little  she  makes  of  what 
she  is  doing  for  us ! " 

"Quite  apt  to  be  the  way,  from  my  experience," 
commented  Martin  Kent,  reaching  for  the  letter  and 
critically  examining  the  handwriting.  "The  bigger 
they  are,  the  more  simple  and  unassuming.  And  the 
lady  writes  the  whole  letter  herself,  if  you  please,  in 
her  own  hand.  That's  some  letter  for  an  autograph 
collector,  Sue!" 

"Well,  an  autograph  collector  is  n't  going  to  get 
it."  And  Sister  Sue  reached  for  the  letter  as  if  al- 
ready fearful  of  its  escape. 


OLD  HOME  WEEK  143 

"And  look  at  Kate  Farnum,  with  her  stiff  little 
note  from  her  secretary!"  scoffed  May;  "laying  down 
the  law  about  doors  being  shut  and  no  admissions 
during  the  reading.  As  if  anybody  cared  whether 
they  heard  her  little  two-for-a-cent  novel,  or  not!" 

"Jealousy  —  professional  jealousy!"  gibed  Martin 
Kent  with  merry  eyes. 

May  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Sister  Sue,  it  is  so,  —  what  I  said,  —  is  n't  it?"  she 
appealed. 

But  Sister  Sue  turned  away  with  a  laugh. 

"Settle  your  own  disputes,"  she  said.  "I've  got  to 
go  and  tell  Mrs.  French  the  latest.  How  pleased  they 
will  be!" 

"You  have  n't  heard  from  Cy  Bellows  yet?" 
called  out  May. 

"No,  but  you  will,"  declared  Martin  Kent  without 
hesitation. 

And  Martin  Kent  was  right.  Before  night  there 
came  a  telegram  reading: 

Great !  Sure  I  'II  come. 

Cy  Bellows. 

"And  now  we've  heard  from  them  all,  and  they're 
all  coming,"  triumphed  Sister  Sue.  "Why,  May,  I'm 
getting  to  be  real  excited  myself;  I  really  am." 

But  she  had  to  draw  the  line  that  evening  when 
Mrs.  French,  red-faced  and  flustered,  ran  over  to 
"talk  things  up." 

"And,  oh,  ain't  it  splendid  and  perfectly  wonder- 
ful?" breathed  Mrs.  French,  dropping  herself  into  a 


144  SISTER  SUE 

chair.  "Only  think  of  having  Viola  Sanderson  and 
Mr.  Kendall  and  —  on  our  programme !  Why,  they 
say  she  has  sung  before  Kings  and  Queens  and  Prin- 
cesses, and  the  idea  of  her  singing  for  us,  right  here  in 
Gilmoreville !  And  it 's  all  owin'  to  you  —  every  bit 
of  it.  We  would  n't  have  had  anybody  but  you  an' 
Mr.  —  oh,  Miss  Sister  Sue,"  she  broke  off,  growing 
even  more  red  of  face,  "I  beg  your  pardon!  Excuse 
me !  That  was  awful !  I  —  I  did  n't  mean  it  —  to 
sound  like  that.  Of  course  we  wanted  you  —  that  is, 
we'd  be  glad  now  to  have  — " 

But  Sister  Sue  interrupted  her  with  a  quickly  up- 
raised hand. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know;  I  understand,"  she  nodded  with 
a  smile.  "But  never  mind  about  that.  Just  think  of 
what  we  're  going  to  have  now.  Besides,  the  work  has 
just  begun,  the  real  work." 

"Yes,  of  course,  I  suppose  it  has,"  sighed  Mrs. 
French,  settling  back  in  her  chair.  "Well,  what 
shall  we  do  first?" 

"I  can't  do  anything.  I  have  n't  the  time,  really, 
Mrs.  French." 

"But,  Sister  Sue,  you'll  advise  us!"  cried  Mrs. 
French,  sitting  up,  aghast.  "I  mean,  Miss  —  Miss 
Gilmore,"  she  stammered. 

"Let  it  go  at  'Sister  Sue.'  That's  what  I  am." 
There  was  an  odd  something  in  the  girl's  voice  that 
vaguely  disturbed  Mrs.  French.  But  instantly  she 
forgot  it  under  the  sway  of  the  brisk  cheeriness  of 
Sister  Sue's  next  sentence.  "Advice?  Oh,  yes,  I'll 
give  you  lots  of  advice,  if  you  want  it,"  she  was  say- 


OLD  HOME  WEEK  145 

ing.  "And  I  can  put  it  in  just  one  word:  Advertise. 
Advertise  everywhere  —  town,  county,  the  whole 
State.  Tell  everybody  what  you  are  going  to  have 
here  on  that  last  Wednesday  in  August.  Then  get 
busy,  all  of  you,  to  prepare  for  the  crowd  that  will 
surely  come." 

**  We  will,  we  will ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  French  eagerly. 
"And  folks  are  interested  already.  The  Kendalls, 
and  Whipples,  and  Grays,  and  all  that  set  —  they  're 
coming,  and  the  Kendalls  are  going  to  have  folks 
from  Boston  and  New  York  —  a  house-party.  And 
Mrs.  Sargent  telephoned  yesterday  to  know  if  we 
were  going  to  have  boxes  in  the  tent;  and  if  we  were, 
she  wanted  us  to  reserve  the  best  one  for  her.  She 
wanted  to  give  a  box-party,  she  said.  Oh,  I  think  it's 
wonderful,  perfectly  wonderful!  And  we  owe  every 
bit  of  it  to  you!" 

"Then  pay  me  back  by  making  the  whole  thing  one 
big  glorious  success,"  smiled  Sister  Sue  as  she  bowed 
her  visitor  out. 

And  when  Mrs.  French  had  gone,  once  more  to  the 
piano  went  Sister  Sue  to  fill  her  ears  with  something 
other  than  that  clamorous  "Encore!  Encore!  Su- 
sanna Gilmore!  Encore!" 

For  the  next  two  weeks  little  was  done  or  thought 
of  in  Gilmoreville  but  what  had  to  do  with  Old  Home 
Week.  Even  the  children,  whose  lips  still  droned 
one-two-three,  one-two-three,  at  Sister  Sue's  piano, 
showed  so  plainly  where  their  minds  were,  that  their 
much-tried  music-teacher  sometimes  declared  to  her 
family  that  she  might  as  well  have  given  up  her 


146  SISTER  SUE 

entire  time  to  the  project,  for  all  the  good  her  lessons 
were  doing.  Even  as  it  was,  her  telephone  was  kept 
not  a  little  busy  by  Mrs.  French's  excited  voice  an- 
nouncing as  a  preface  to  an  always  lengthy  talk: 

"Well,  I  want  to  tell  you  what  we're  doing  now /" 

Sister  Sue  knew,  therefore,  the  most  of  what  was 
being  done. 

It  was  arranged  that  Miss  Kate  Farnum  should 
stay  at  the  Inn.  Nobody  seemed  anxious  to  under- 
take her  entertainment  after  being  shown  the  secre- 
tary's letter.  Mr.  Donald  Kendall,  of  course,  would 
stay  at  his  mother's.  At  least  five  homes  had  been 
thrown  wide  open  to  Cy  Bellows,  with  their  owners 
begging  for  the  privilege  of  entertaining  him.  After 
anxious  deliberation  the  Committee  chose  the  first 
one  offered  as  the  safest  way  out  of  that  dilemma. 

There  remained,  then,  only  Miss  Viola  Sanderson. 
Here  there  entered  complications.  Mrs.  Jane  Jones, 
an  aunt  of  the  singer,  lived  in  a  little  white  house  on 
a  side  street,  and  she  notified  the  Chairman  of  the 
Committee  for  Making  Our  Old  Home  Week  a  Big 
Success  that  she  would  be  very  glad  to  entertain  her 
niece.  This  created  some  little  consternation  of  itself, 
for  the  small  white  house  on  the  side  street  was  very 
plain  and  unpretentious,  and  its  mistress,  though  a 
very  sweet  and  estimable  little  old  lady,  was  even 
more  simple  and  unpretentious  than  the  house;  and 
the  Committee  for  Making  Our  Old  Home  Week 
a  Big  Success  were  appalled  at  the  thought  of  con- 
ducting the  great  Viola  Sanderson  to  what  they  scorn- 
fully termed  "that  little  snippy  place." 


OLD  HOME  WEEK  147 

"Yet,  of  course,  Mis'  Jones  is  a  relative,  her  own 
mother's  sister,"  moaned  Mrs.  French  worriedly. 
"There's  no  getting  away  from  that!" 

At  this  point,  to  complicate  matters  still  further, 
came  the  note  from  Mrs.  Whipple,  graciously  offering 
the  hospitality  of  her  home  for  the  entertainment  of 
their  expected  guest  Miss  Viola  Sanderson. 

"And  there  the  Whipples  have  got  the  very  swell- 
est-looking  house  in  town,  with  that  porte-cochere,  and 
all,"  wailed  one  of  the  Committee  when  the  letter  was 
read.  "We'd  love  to  take  her  there.  Besides,  if  we 
don't,  what  can  we  say  to  Mrs.  Wliipple?  She'll  get 
mad  then,  and  we  can't  afford  that.  She's  going  to 
take  ten  tickets.  She  said  she  would.  But  if  we  don't 
let  her  have  Miss  Sanderson,  after  all  her  kind  offer, 
she  won't  take  one,  maybe." 

In  this  dilemma,  as  in  many  others,  Mrs.  French 
finally  appealed  to  Sister  Sue. 

"Now  what  shall  we  do?"  she  demanded,  when 
she  had  laid  the  case  before  her  over  the  telephone. 
"What  can  we  do?" 

"Leave  it  to  Miss  Sanderson  herself,"  answered 
Sister  Sue  promptly. 

"To  Miss  Sanderson?" 

"Of  course.  You'll  have  to.  There's  nothing  else 
you  can  do  that  I  can  see,"  persisted  Sister  Sue. 
"You  want  her  to  go  to  Mrs.  WTiipple's,  I  judge,  from 
what  you  say." 

"Well,  I  guess  we  do!  The  idea  of  Viola  Sanderson 
going  to  Jane  Jones's  to  stay!" 

"But  Mrs.  Jones  can't  be  ignored,  just  the  same," 


148  SISTER  SUE 

Sister  Sue  reminded  her.  "She  is  her  aunt,  you  know. 
It  would  n't  be  fair  to  her,  or  even  to  Miss  Sanderson 
herself,  not  to  give  her  her  aunt's  invitation.  At  the 
same  time  you  can  tell  her  of  the  other.  Then  let  her 
choose." 

"All  right,"  came  the  voice  of  Mrs.  French  doubt- 
fully over  the  wire.  "  If  you  really  think  we  ought  to." 

"I  certainly  do,"  declared  Sister  Sue  as  she  hung  up 
the  receiver. 

Arrangements  for  the  ball-game  were  coming  on 
apace.  Sister  Sue  was  not  consulted  about  this,  but 
she  was  told  all  about  it.  The  players  were  all  home- 
town young  men,  and  were  practicing  every  afternoon 
on  the  Common.  The  bank  boys  and  retail  clerks 
were  going  to  play  against  a  nine  picked  from  the 
Kendall  and  Whipple  shops.  Before  the  Great  Day 
they  were  to  draw  lots  to  see  who  should  have  Cy 
Bellows  for  pitcher.  It  was  a  foregone  conclusion, 
of  course,  that  the  side  which  won  Cy  Bellows  would 
win  the  game;  though  each  team  valiantly  declared 
that  they  'd  give  the  other  a  fight  for  it,  anyhow,  even 
if  they  did  have  Cy  Bellows  for  pitcher! 

The  fame  of  the  game,  as  well  as  of  the  concert,  was 
already  spread  abroad,  for  both  had  been  advertised 
far  and  near.  And  already  from  remote  corners  of  the 
State  had  come  news  of  intending  visitors. 

Little  wonder  that  Gilmoreville  was  on  the  qm 
vive,  and  that  Sister  Sue's  small  pupils  droned  out 
their  one-two-three,  one-two-three,  with  minds  miles 
away  from  their  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XI 

DONALD  KENDALL 

IT  was  on  the  last  Saturday  afternoon  before  Old 
Home  Week  that  May  rushed  into  the  living-rooni 
where  Sister  Sue  was  awaiting  a  belated  pupil. 

"He's  come!"  she  announced  breathlessly. 

"Well,  I  should  think  that  it  was  time,"  answered 
the  somewhat  annoyed  music- teacher.  "But  why, 
pray,  all  this  excitement  on  your  part?  You're  not 
usually  so  interested  in  my  pupils.  Where  is  he?  Why 
does  n't  he  come  in?  Well,  what 's  the  matter  now?  " 
she  demanded  with  still  more  irritation  as  May  began 
to  giggle  hysterically. 

"It's  Donald  Kendall  that's  come  —  not  your 
precious  Jimmy  Sargent,"  chattered  May.  "  I  just 
saw  him." 

"Oh!  Well."  Sister  Sue  was  still  frowning,  though 
her  eyes  began  to  show  a  decided  interest. 

"I  saw  him  get  out  of  the  motor  at  their  door.  I 
know  it  was  he.  He  was  tall  and  dark,  just  as  Mar- 
tin said ;  and  he  had  a  violin.  Behind  him  came  a  little 
man  with  a  big  music  portfolio  under  his  arm.  Then 
the  chauffeur  carried  in  two  enormous  suitcases  and  a 
hatbox.  Oh,  Sue,  I  'm  crazy  to  see  him !  —  near  to,  I 
mean.  Are  n't  you?" 

"I'm  crazy  to  hear  him' play,"  emphasized  Sister 
Sue  severely;  "and  —  oh,  there's  Jimmy,  at  last,"  she 
broke  off,  hurrying  from  the  room. 


150  SISTER  SUE 

The  whole  town  knew  before  the  day  was  over  that 
Donald  Kendall  had  arrived;  and  before  twenty -four 
hours  had  passed,  many  who  (like  May)  had  longed  to 
see  him  "near  to,"  found  their  longing  satisfied.  For 
Donald  Kendall  went  to  church  in  the  morning  and 
sat  in  the  Kendall  pew.  He  seemed  oblivious  of  the 
many  curious  glances  cast  in  his  direction;  and  his  air, 
as  he  walked  down  the  aisle  upon  leaving  the  church, 
did  not  invite  approach,  though  he  was  civil  enough 
to  the  few  braver  spirits  who  dared  to  speak  to  him. 

In  the  afternoon  he  and  his  accompanist  went  to 
walk  on  the  hill  back  of  the  house;  and  in  the  early 
evening  May  saw  the  big  touring  car  come  around  to 
the  door  and  take  them  all  away  for  a  ride. 

Not  until  Monday  morning  did  there  come  the 
sound  of  the  violin;  then,  at  almost  the  first  note, 
Sister  Sue  and  May  ran  to  the  corner  of  the  vine- 
shaded  veranda  nearest  the  Kendall  house. 

"Hush!  Listen!  He's  playing  the  Tschaikowsky 
concerto,"  whispered  Sister  Sue  excitedly.  Then, 
after  a  minute:  "Oh,  May,  he  can  play!"  Then, 
after  another  five  minutes  of  ecstatic  listening:  "And 
—  I've  got  to  leave  it!  There's  Susie  —  the  little 
wretch !  To  think  of  having  to  hear  her  jangling  with 
the  memory  of  this  in  my  ears!" 

"I  wonder  if  he  remembers  us,"  murmured  May, 
trying  to  peer  through  the  thick  screen  of  leaves. 
"Sue,  do  you  suppose  we'll  have  to  be  introduced? 
I  shan't.  I'm  going  to  go  right  up  and  speak  to  him 
when  it 's  over.  Shan't  you?" 

But  Sister  Sue  had  gone.   And  in  a  moment  from 


DONALD  KENDALL  151 

the  piano  in  the  house  came  the  familiar  one-two- 
three,  one-two-three,  one-two-three. 

With  a  vexed  gesture  May  ran  to  shut  the  door 
and  the  window ;  then  she  came  back  to  her  corner 
on  the  veranda. 

She  was  there  when  the  messenger  boy  on  the  bi- 
cycle dashed  up  the  Kendall  driveway,  and  she  was 
still  there  through  all  the  subsequent  confusion;  so 
that  when  Sister  Sue  came  out  on  to  the  veranda  for  a 
breath  of  air  between  pupils,  May  was  able  to  give  her 
a  full  account  of  what  had  occurred. 

"Something  has  happened,  Sue!"  she  cried,  fairly 
quivering  with  excitement.  "First,  Johnny  Baxter 
came  on  his  wheel  with  a  telegram,  and  a  minute 
later  the  music  stopped  right  off  short,  and  I  could 
hear  voices,  away  here  —  quick,  excited  voices  as  if 
something  was  wrong.  Then  it  seems  as  though  it 
was  n't  more  than  five  minutes  before  the  chauffeur 
had  the  car  at  the  door  and  the  little  man  —  the 
accompanist,  you  know  —  came  running  down  the 
steps  with  a  suitcase  and  jumped  into  the  car.  Be- 
hind him  Mr.  Kendall  was  hurrying  just  as  fast, 
only  he  did  n't  get  into  the  car.  He  had  his  watch 
out  and  I  heard  him  call:  'You'll  make  it!  You've 
got  ten  minutes!  Don't  worry!'  Then  I  knew  he 
meant  the  train  for  New  York,  of  course.  And  the  car 
dashed  off  and  Mr.  Kendall  went  back  into  the  house. 
In  a  minute  I  heard  the  violin ;  but  it  was  n't  at  all  as 
he  played  it  before.  It  sounded,  for  all  the  world,  like 
your  piano  when  you  are  all  worked  up  over  some- 
thing, only  much  worse." 


152  SISTER  SUE 

"I  can  imagine  it,"  nodded  Sister  Sue. 

"It  shrieked  and  groaned  and  fairly  sent  the  shivers 
down  my  back;  then  he  played  the  most  wonderful 
double-stopping  I  ever,  ever  heard.  The  next  minute 
the  music  stopped  right  off  short  again,  and  a  moment 
later  his  majesty  appeared  on  the  piazza  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  like  a  wild  thing. 
Twice  his  mother  came  out  and  said  something,  but 
he  just  waved  her  away  as  if  she  had  been  a  fly  that 
bothered;  and  by  and  by  he  went  into  the  house,  and 
I  heard  the  violin  again,  only  worse  than  before.  I 
tell  you,  Sue,  the  piano  is  n't  in  it  with  the  violin 
when  it  comes  right  down  to  expressing  your  opinion 
of  matters  and  things  without  reserve!  But  what  do 
you  suppose  it  all  means?" 

"I  can't  imagine,  except,  of  course,  that  the  accom- 
panist has  gone.  That 's  plain  to  be  seen.  And  maybe 
he  can't  get  back  for  the  concert.  But,  anyway,  we'll 
know  later,  probably,"  she  called  back  as  she  went  to 
meet  her  next  pupil  coming  up  the  steps. 

And  they  did  know.  At  noon  Sister  Sue  was  sum- 
moned to  the  telephone.  When  she  came  back  to  the 
table  there  was  an  odd  smile  on  her  face. 

"Well,  May,  you'll  have  your  wish.  You  will  have 
an  opportunity  of  seeing  Donald  Kendall  real  near 
to,  this  evening,  if  you  like.  He's  coming  over  here." 

"Here  —  to-night?  Honestly?"  May  was  guilty 
of  trying  to  talk  with  her  mouth  full. 

"Yes,  at  eight  o'clock." 

" To  see  us ? "  May  spoke  more  distinctly  now.  "To 
—  to  call,  you  mean?" 


DONALD  KENDALL  153 

"To  practice  —  if  he'll  let  me."  Sister  Sue's  face 
was  expressive. 

"You  don't  mean  —  his  violin!" 

"Yes.  His  mother  told  me  that  she  had  persuaded 
him  to  let  me  try  his  accompaniments  for  Wednesday, 
and  that  he  would  be  over  at  once." 

"Now ! "  May's  hands  flew  to  her  hair  and  the  neck 
of  her  dress.  "But  I  thought  you  said  to-night!" 

"I  did.  It  was  she  who  said  'now.'"  Sister  Sue's 
face  was  still  expressive  of  that  curious  something. 
"And  she  did  n't  even  ask  me,  either.  She  said  he 
was  coming." 

"And  you  dared  to  put  Donald  Kendall  off  till 
to-night?"  gasped  May. 

"Certainly.  I  told  Mrs.  Kendall  that  I  couldn't 
see  her  son  this  afternoon.  I  had  pupils." 

"Pupils!  —  when  Donald  Kendall  wanted  you  to 
play  for  him!"  gasped  May  again.  "Sister  Sue,  how 
could  you?" 

"But  I  had  to."  Sister  Sue's  voice  was  spirited, 
her  eyes  flashed  a  little.  "Donald  Kendall  is  not  my 
bread-and-butter,  and  my  pupils  are.  Besides,  I  was 
really  rather  glad  that  I  could  n't  be  ready  just  the 
minute  his  lordship  demanded.  As  I  said,  Mrs. 
Kendall  did  n't  ask  if  he  might  come,  or  if  I  'd  be  will- 
ing to  play  for  him.  She  said  she  had  persuaded  him 
to  let  me  try,  and  he  was  coming  right  over." 

"Then  his  accompanist  has  gone." 

"Yes.  His  father  is  very  ill  —  dying,  the  tele- 
gram said.  I  guess  they  think  there's  no  chance  of 
his  getting  back  in  time.  So  they  had  to  take  me." 


154  SISTER  SUE 

"Had  to  take  you,  indeed!  As  if  they  weren't 
the  luckiest  things  in  the  world  to  get  you!"  cried 
May. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  shrugged  Sister  Sue.  "I  fancy 
Donald  Kendall  does  n't  think  so." 

And  Donald  Kendall  did  not  think  so.  Just  how 
strongly  Donald  Kendall  was  of  this  opinion  it  was 
perhaps  quite  as  well  that  Sister  Sue  did  not  know. 
It  was  just  as  well,  too,  perhaps,  that  she  did  not  know 
exactly  what  had  taken  place  before  his  mother's 
telephone  message,  otherwise  there  might  have  been 
a  still  longer  wait  before  she  was  ready  to  receive  Mr. 
Donald  Kendall. 

What  had  occurred  was  this: 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do,  dear?"  Mrs.  Ken- 
dall had  asked  her  son  when  he  was  calm  enough  to 
do  something  besides  wave  her  away  irritably.  He 
had  laid  down  his  violin  and  thrown  himself  dejectedly 
into  a  chair.  Twice  before,  on  the  veranda,  she  had 
spoken  to  him;  but  he  would  not  even  listen.  He  had 
come  into  the  house  then,  and  had  played  furiously 
on  his  violin  until  exhausted.  "What  are  you  going 
to  do?"  she  repeated. 

"I  shall  play  without  accompaniment." 

"Donald,  you  never  would!" 

"But  I  shall." 

"But,  Donald,  it  won't  sound  half  so  good."  She 
was  almost  crying.  "I  noticed  this  morning  how  the 
piano  filled  in  and  rounded  the  whole  thing  out,  and 
made  the  violin  part  wonderful.  I  don't  see  how 
you  can  play  it  without  the  piano." 


DONALD  KENDALL  155 

"Oh,  I  shan't  play  that  concerto,  of  course.  I  shall 
play  something  else." 

"You  mean — !  Donald,  you  wouldn't  get  up 
there  and  play  some  snippy  little  no-account  thing 
that  day  I" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "There  are  melodies," 
he  began;  but  she  interrupted  him. 

"Now,  Donald,  you  are  not  going  to  get  up  there 
and  play  any  old  'Home,  Sweet  Home/  or  'Last 
Rose  of  Summer.'  That  might  do  in  New  York  and 
places  where  they'd  understand  the  fine  artistry  of 
your  performance  —  but  not  here.  They  '11  have  to 
have  noise  and  show  and  fireworks  here!" 

"But,  mother,  as  if  I  cared — "  began  the  man, 
again  with  a  shrug. 

"Then  care  for  me!"  interrupted  his  mother  tragi- 
cally. "You  are  in  your  own  home  town  —  the 
town  I  have  to  live  in,  remember.  Men,  women,  and 
children  will  be  here  who  never  heard  you  before, 
and  who  will  never  hear  you  again.  Call  it  silly,  fool- 
ish, false  pride,  if  you  will.  I  don't  care.  I  want  these 
people  to  think  you  are  the  wonder  you  really  are  — 
but  they  never  will  in  the  world  if  you  get  up  there 
and  play  some  little  old  tune  they  know  by  heart 
already." 

"But,  mother,  will  you  kindly  tell  me  what  I  can 
do?"  demanded  the  violinist  irritably. 

"Play  what  you  were  going  to,  with  piano  accom- 
paniment." 

"But,  good  Heavens!  with  whom?  Dodge  can't 
possibly  get  back,  and  you  know  it." 


156  SISTER  SUE 

"Get  some  one  here." 

"Here!  —  in  this  town!  —  To  play  the  Tschaikow- 
sky  concerto  —  for  me ! " 

"  Certainly."  Mrs.  Kendall  still  held  her  ground  in 
spite  of  the  horror  in  her  son's  face.  "I  think  Sister 
Sue  could  do  it." 

"And  pray  who  may  Sister  Sue  be?  I  did  n't  know 
that  Gilmoreville  sported  a  —  a  nunnery." 

"Nonsense,  don't  be  silly,  Donald.  It's  Sue  Gil- 
more,  the  little  girl  next  door  you  used  to  play  with 
years  ago.  Even  then  they  used  to  call  her  Sister  Sue. 
Don't  you  remember?  Always,  to  any  questions  you 
asked  of  any  of  the  family  there  was  only  one  answer : 
'Sister  Sue  will  know';  'Sister  Sue  will  do  it.": 

"Indeed!  And  so  you  think  this  all-powerful,  all- 
knowing  Sister  Sue  can  play  the  Tschaikowsky  con- 
certo for  me  Wednesday  afternoon,  do  you?" 

"She  can  try" 

"Thanks.  I've  had  aspiring  pianists  try  before. 
It  was  not  a  pleasant  experience.  I  really  should  not 
care  to  repeat  it." 

"But,  Donald;  indeed,  she  plays  very  nicely,  and 
she  has  been  teaching  all  summer." 

"The  village  children?" 

"Yes;  and  four  from  the  Junction,  too." 

"I  know.  'The  Maiden's  Prayer,'  and,  'Listen  to 
the  Mocking  Bird  with  Variations.'  I  recognize  the 
type." 

"But,  Donald,  you  could  try  her.  It  would  n't  do 
any  harm  to  let  her  try.  There's  time  enough.  Please, 
please  let  me  go  and  tell  her  you'll  be  over  this  after- 


DONALD  KENDALL  157 

noon  with  the  music.  And,  Donald,  have  n't  you 
got  something  easier,  that's  still  showy  and  fine- 
sounding,  something  she  could  do,  if  she  can't  do  the 
concerto?  You  can  try  her  on  the  concerto,  first,  of 
course." 

It  was  after  ten  minutes  more  of  such  pleading 
that  Donald  Kendall  (chiefly  to  avoid  hearing  it  any 
longer)  consented  that  his  mother  should  telephone 
to  Sister  Sue  next  door.  Two  minutes  later  Mrs.  Ken- 
dall came  back  from  the  instrument,  her  face  flooded 
with  anger. 

"Well,  you've  had  your  way,"  began  her  son  dis- 
contentedly, without  looking  up,  "and  I  suppose  I'm 
in  for  it  after  luncheon.  What  time  do  I  go?" 

"Not  till  evening  —  eight  o'clock."  Mrs.  Ken- 
dall's voice  shook.  "The  little  wretch  had  the  im- 
pertinence to  say  that  she  could  n't  attend  to  it  this 
afternoon.  Pupils.  The  idea!  —  and  the  honor  you 
were  doing  her!" 

An  odd  expression  came  to  Donald  Kendall's 
face.  He  stared,  frowned,  then  shrugged  his  shoulders- 
again.  The  next  minute  he  had  turned  away  with- 
out a  word. 

It  was  just  eight  o'clock  when  Donald  Kendall 
rang  the  Gilmores'  front-door  bell.  He  carried  a  vio- 
lin in  its  case  and  a  portfolio  of  music. 

May  advanced  at  once  from  the  shadow  of  the 
vines. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Kendall!"  she  greeted  him 
blithely.  "Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down,  please? 
I  will  tell  Sister  Sue  you  are  here.  I  am  May.  You 


158  SISTER  SUE 

don't  remember,  probably,  but  we  remember  you 
very  well." 

"Yes,  we  remember  you  very  well,"  echoed  a  new 
voice  as  Sister  Sue  herself  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
"Won't  you  come  in,  Mr.  Kendall?" 

"Er  —  thank  you,  yes."  Donald  Kendall's  lips 
smiled,  but  his  eyes  were  somber,  and  there  was  a 
frown  between  the  heavy  black  brows.  "My  mother 
said  perhaps  you  'd  be  willing  to  try  —  that  is  —  that 
perhaps  you  could  play  my  accompaniments  for  me 
Wednesday." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to.  Won't  you  be  seated,  please?" 

They  were  in  the  stiff  parlor  room  with  the  hair- 
wreath  and  the  coffin-plates  staring  down  at  them. 
Donald  Kendall  put  down  his  violin  and  his  music; 
and  May  began  to  talk  brightly  —  archly  asking  him 
how  it  felt  to  be  so  famous  and  to  come  to  his  old 
home  town  like  this,  and  did  he  remember  what  a 
wretch  he  used  to  be  and  how  he  tormented  the  lives 
out  of  those  two  poor  little  girls  next  door,  who  just 
worshiped  him  if  only  he  'd  stop  teasing  and  play  with 
them? 

Mr.  Donald  Kendall  did  not  remember — much.  Oh, 
yes!  he  remembered  the  little  girls,  of  course,  and  he 
was  very  sorry  he  had  been  so  rude  and  inconsiderate, 
he  was  sure. 

But  the  frown  was  still  on  his  face  and  his  eyes  still 
were  somber  and  he  was  plainly  nervous  and  impa- 
tient— and  bored — and  enduring  it  all  merely  as  a 
necessary  preliminary  to  the  business  on  hand.  At 
last  he  turned  to  Sister  Sue  decisively,  saying: 


DONALD  KENDALL  159 

"I've  brought  the  music.  I  have  it  here  —  what 
I  planned  to  play.  But  I'm  afraid  you  will  find  it 
—  er  —  rather  difficult.  In  that  case  there  are  one 
or  two  others  —  I  could  substitute  them,  if  necessary. 
Of  course,  I  don't  expect  you  to  play  them  to-night 
without  first  looking  them  over.  You  can  practice 
them  a  little  to-morrow.  Then  to-morrow  night  I  '11 
come  over  again  —  with  your  permission  "  (this  last 
plainly  as  an  afterthought)  —  "and  we  can  try  them." 

"May  I  see  them,  please?"  Sister  Sue  rose  and 
went  to  the  piano.  She  was  serene,  demure,  and  in- 
nocent, but  there  was  an  odd  little  something  in  her 
eyes  that  would  have  puzzled  Mr.  Donald  Kendall 
very,  very  much  had  he  seen  it. 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  wanted, to  show  them  to  you," 
he  said,  hastily  getting  to  his  feet.  "I  just  wanted  to 
tell  you  the  tempo  —  time,  you  know  —  of  some  of 
the  movements." 

"I  see,"  murmured  Sister  Sue.  "Suppose  we  take 
first  the  —  the  pieces  you  wanted  to  play,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"Very  well."  With  a  frown,  and  an  obviously  re- 
signed sigh,  the  violinist  selected  some  sheets  of  music 
and  placed  them  on  the  piano  rack.  Sister  Sue  looked 
at  the  first  page  interestedly  and  nodded  her  head. 
She  did  not  hesitate  long.  The  man  took  out  his 
violin  and  tested  a  string. 

"Give  me  'A,'  please." 

Obediently,  Sister  Sue  struck  the  key.  Still  frown- 
ing, still  resigned,  Donald  Kendall  pointed  with  the 
bow  in  his  hand  to  the  opening  score. 


160  SISTER  SUE 

"I  take  it  about  like  this,"  he  said,  and  played  a 
few  bars.  "Then  over  here"  —  he  turned  the  pages 
rapidly  —  "the  andante  should  go  slowly,  very 
slowly.  Then  the  scherzo  here,  quick,  animated  — 
just  as  fast  as  you  can  and  then 't  won't  be  fast  enough, 
I  '11  warrant."  Sister  Sue's  lips  came  together  quickly. 
"Here,  you  have  these  runs  and  trills  alone.  And 
those  eight  measures  there,  they're  rather  difficult, 
you'll  find.  But,  of  course,  they  could  be  omitted,  I 
suppose,  though  't  would  be  a  pity." 

"Yes,  it  would,"  murmured  Sister  Sue.  Then, 
cheerfully,  "Well,  I  think  I  understand.  Shall  we  try 
it?"  she  asked,  turning  back  to  the  first  page. 

"Now?" 

"Why,  yes,  I'd  like  to." 

The  man's  frown  deepened. 

"But,  Miss  Gilmore!  Now?  Before  you  even 
practice  it?  I  wouldn't,  really.  You  —  you'll  get 
discouraged  at  the  very  beginning  —  while,  maybe, 
if  you'd  practice  it — "  He  let  a  significant  pause 
finish  the  sentence  for  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  smiled  Sister  Sue  sweetly. 
"Very  likely  I  can  play  it  better  after  I  practice  it, 
but  I  thought  I  'd  like  to  run  it  through  once  or  twice 
now." 

"Run  it  through,  run  it  through! — Run  it  —  run 
a  concerto  for  the  violin  and  piano  through  once  or 
twice!"  Very  plainly  Mr.  Donald  Kendall  had  lost 
his  temper  now  and  did  not  care  who  knew  it.  "Very 
well,  young  woman,  we  will!  But  remember  your  sin 
will  be  on  your  own  head.  I  did  my  best  to  warn  you. 


DONALD  KENDALL  161 

This  is  no  'Maiden's  Prayer/  or  'Listen  to  the  Mock- 
ing Bird  with  Variations/  as  you'll  soon  find  out. 
But  I'll  'run  it  through'  for  you.  I'll  play  it  straight 
through  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  I  don't  need 
the  notes.  As  for  you,  when  you  can,  play;  when  you 
can't,  keep  quiet  and  wait  till  a  place  where  you  can. 
Above  all  things,  don't  drag.  If  you're  not  sure  of 
your  notes,  don't  slow  up  and  pick  them  out;  stop; 
stop,  I  say,  and  wait  till  you  can  come  in  again  with 
me.  Now,  ready ! "  And  he  motioned  for  her  to  begin. 

Over  in  the  corner  May  gasped  aloud.  For  one 
brief  instant  Sister  Sue  looked  as  if  she  were  going  to 
leave  the  piano.  She  did,  indeed,  half  start  from  her 
seat.  Then,  with  a  demure  little  smile,  she  lifted 
her  hands  and  struck  the  opening  notes. 

And  then  Donald  Kendall  began  to  play.  Very 
plainly  he  was  master  of  the  score  and  of  his  instru- 
ment. At  the  first  few  notes  from  the  piano,  accurate 
and  unhesitating,  he  had  turned  sharply,  his  ques- 
tioning eyes  on  the  girl's  unperturbed  face.  All  through 
the  first  half  of  the  first  movement  he  had  the  air 
of  one  who  finds  himself  walking  on  familiar  ground 
when  he  was  expecting  uncertainty  to  break  through 
a  treacherous  crust.  But  very  soon  evidently  he  for- 
got that,  and  long  before  the  end  of  the  first  move- 
ment was  reached,  he  had  lost  himself  entirely  in  the 
world  of  exquisite  melody  he  was  making  for  himself. 

In  the  corner  May  caught  her  breath,  and  held  it, 
afraid  to  let  it  out  lest  some  of  the  entrancing  cadence 
be  lost.  Martin  Kent  came  up  the  walk,  and  May, 
seeing  him,  went  to  admit  him,  her  finger  to  her  lips. 


SISTER  SUE 

Then  together  they  tiptoed  back  to  the  parlor  and 
slipped  silently  into  their  chairs. 

As  from  a  single  instrument  under  the  will  of  a 
single  mind  came  the  wondrous  music,  so  exactly 
were  the  two  players  together,  whether  in  a  swelling 
paean  of  triumphant  rejoicing  or  the  whisper  of  some 
fair  voices  far  in  the  distance.  Enchanted  and  en- 
thralled, the  two  listeners  across  the  room  sat  motion- 
less. No  less  enchanted  and  enthralled,  the  players 
themselves  very  clearly  had  lost  all  consciousness  of 
anything  but  the  creation  of  their  own  melodious  har- 
mony. At  the  piano  Sister  Sue,  as  if  under  the  sway  of 
some  magic  message  from  his  mind  to  hers,  kept  pace, 
note  for  note;  —  now  faster  and  faster,  till  her  fingers 
seemed  scarcely  to  touch  the  keys;  now  slower  and 
slower,  till  each  note  was  a  lingering  caress  bringing 
out  the  very  soul  of  the  instrument  itself.  And  when 
the  last  strain  had  quieted  into  silence,  May  and  Mar- 
tin Kent  drew  a  long  breath  of  ecstasy  which  was 
echoed  by  Donald  Kendall  himself. 

"That  was  something  like!"  he  breathed.  Then, 
as  if  in  sudden  realization,  he  turned  to  the  girl  at  the 
piano.  "And  you  —  you!  For  Heaven's  sake, child, 
who  and  what  are  you?"  he  demanded. 

Sister  Sue,  whose  face  till  that  moment  had  been 
rapt,  eager,  and  alight,  like  the  faces  of  the  others, 
changed  color. 

"I?  Oh  — I  — I'm  Sister  Sue,"  she  shrugged, 
and,  wheeling  back  to  the  piano,  lightly  touched  the 
keys  —  perhaps  to  show  that  her  answer  was  really  as 
light  as  it  sounded  to  be. 


DONALD  KENDALL  163 

"But — to  —  to  read  like  that,  to  say  nothing  of 
playing  as  you  did!"  He  stared,  still  with  a  puzzled 
frown. 

"Sister  Sue  was  the  crack  sight-reader  in  Signer 
Bartoni's  class  last  year,"  bragged  May  shamelessly. 

Then  somebody  remembered  that  Martin  Kent  did 
not  know  Mr.  Kendall;  thereupon  formal  introduc- 
tions were  made,  and  the  talk  for  a  few  moments  be- 
came general,  but  not  for  long.  Without  asking,  Don- 
ald Kendall  turned  again  to  Sister  Sue. 

"I'm  going  to  play  this  for  the  second  piece,"  he 
began,  eagerly  placing  on  the  rack  a  fresh  score; 
"would  you  mind  trying  this  —  just  a  bit?" 

"Oh,  no!  I  would  n't  mind  it  at  all."  Sister  Sue's 
face  had  suddenly  broken  into  a  broad  smile  as  she  let 
her  fingers  fall  on  the  keys. 

After  that  it  was  another,  and  another. 

And  so  on  they  played,  oblivious  of  everything  but 
themselves  and  their  music  before  them.  In  the  cor- 
ner May  yawned  behind  her  hand  and  Martin  Kent 
fidgeted  with  his  watch-chain,  pulling  at  the  watch 
itself  at  intervals  more  frequent  than  polite.  After  a 
time  he  rose  to  his  feet.  He  said  he  must  go  —  really 
he  must. 

May  rose  at  once  to  her  feet. 

Donald  Kendall  said,  "Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure.  Good- 
night." All  of  which  was  tossed  over  his  shoulder  with- 
out so  much  as  the  turning  of  the  head  away  from  the 
sheets  of  music  he  was  sorting. 

Sister  Sue  rose  and  came  forward  with  her  hand 
outstretched.  Under  her  breath  she  said  she  was 


164  SISTER  SUE 

sorry  to  have  to  seem  inhospitable  to  him,  but  of 
course  he'd  understand  that  she  had  to  attend  to  the 
music  that  evening. 

Her  eyes  were  very  bright  and  her  cheeks  were  very 
pink  and  her  whole  face  was  alight  with  eager  ex- 
citement. Martin  Kent's  eyes  were  not  bright,  his 
cheeks  were  not  flushed,  and  not  a  bit  of  his  face  was 
alight  with  eager  excitement.  Martin  Kent,  in  fact, 
looked  actually  cross  as  he  strode  down  the  walk  to- 
ward the  street.  Under  his  breath  he  was  muttering: 
"Deliver  me  from  a  fool  man  who  does  n't  know  a 
thing  but  how  to  fiddle — and  wants  to  fiddle  all  the 
time." 


CHAPTER  XII 

GREETINGS  AND  ENCORES 

BY  Tuesday  morning  Old  Home  Week  in  Gilmore- 
ville  was  in  full  swing.  The  whole  town  was  having 
a  holiday.  Cy  Bellows  had  arrived  the  night  before 
and  had  been  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  a  cheering 
multitude  to  the  final  lucky  choice  of  entertainers. 
The  drawing  had  been  made  and  the  manufacturers' 
nine  had  won  the  star  pitcher,  and  were  off  somewhere 
now  in  secret  session  preparing  for  the  grand  game.  In 
another  part  of  the  town  the  disappointed,  but  by  no 
means  discouraged,  nine  were  also  in  secret  session, 
pledging  themselves  to  see  that  it  was  no  "walk- 
over" and  that  they  would  give  the  shop  boys  "a 
good  fight,  anyhow." 

At  ten  o'clock  Miss  Kate  Farnum,  the  novelist, 
came  accompanied  by  her  secretary.  With  some  re- 
lief and  all  deference,  but  with  no  enthusiasm,  the 
ladies  were  escorted  to  the  Inn  and  established  in  the 
Bridal  Suite  of  two  bedrooms,  bath,  and  reception- 
room —  really  a  sumptuous  apartment;  though,  as 
the  indignant  hotel  clerk  afterwards  reported,  it  was 
not  quite  satisfactory  —  the  lady  observing  to  her 
secretary  upon  entering  that  the  rooms  were  hot  and 
stuffy,  and  did  she  ever  see  such  hideous  wall-paper 
in  her  life! 

Mrs.  French,  the  Chairman  of  the  Committee  for 
Making  Our  Old  Home  Week  a  Big  Success,  and  two 


166  SISTER  SUE 

of  her  henchwomen  somewhat  tremblingly  waited  on 
the  distinguished  lady  —  gave  her  a  programme  for 
the  entertainment  the  next  day  —  hoped  that  her 
place  on  it  was  satisfactory  and  that  she  was  in  good 
health  —  said  they  were  very  glad  to  see  her  and  felt 
deeply  honored  by  her  presence.  Conversation  rather 
languished  after  that,  and  the  Committee  took  its 
somewhat  nervous  departure,  drawing  a  very  long 
breath  when  once  outside  the  hotel  door. 

"Well!  If  our  singer  is  any  worse  than  she  is,  I 
pity  us,"  breathed  Mrs.  French  with  relief,  taking 
out  a  lace-bordered  handkerchief  and  starting  to 
wipe  her  perspiring  face  with  it,  stopping  just  in  time, 
however,  and  substituting  one  with  no  lace  from 
another  pocket.  "Heaven  knows  I  wish  this  first- 
meeting  part  of  the  business  was  over!" 

"And  we've  got  to  meet  the  singer  at  the  depot," 
mourned  the  Committee  lady  with  the  purple  hat. 

"I  know  it,"  sighed  Mrs.  French;  "but  it's  the  last 
of  'em.  Remember  that." 

"Goodness  knows  I  hope  she'll  go  to  the  Whip- 
pies'  ! "  cried  the  third  member  of  the  Committee, 
who  wore  glasses.  "If  Kate  Farnum  finds  fault  with 
the  wall-paper  at  the  Inn,  what  do  you  suppose  Viola 
Sanderson,  the  grandest  of  'em  all,  will  say  to  that 
little  old  Jones  house?" 

"I  don't  know,"  groaned  Mrs.  French.  "But  then 
we  need  n't  worry.  She  won't  go  there,  of  course." 

"But  Jane  Jones  thinks  she's  coming,"  spoke  up 
she  of  the  purple  hat. 

"That  ain't  our  fault,"  responded  Mrs.  French, 


GREETINGS  AND  ENCORES          167 

somewhat  haughtily.  "We  told  her  about  the 
Whipples' invitation.  Now,  remember!  Four  o'clock 
—  sharp  —  in  the  waiting-room  at  the  depot.  Then 
we'll  be  all  ready  for  the  train  at  five  minutes  past," 
she  added  as  she  turned  down  the  street. 

And  at  four  o'clock  sharp  they  were  there  —  Mrs. 
French,  the  lady  of  the  purple  hat,  and  the  one  who 
wore  glasses.  They  had  n't  long  to  wait  or  worry,  for 
promptly  on  time  the  train  rolled  in  and  there  stepped 
down  from  the  parlor  car  the  handsomely  dressed, 
smiling  woman  whom  they  recognized  from  her  pic- 
tures as  the  great  coloratura  soprano. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  the  full  awf ulness  of  the 
task  before  her  struck  Mrs.  French  dumb.  Advancing 
mechanically,  she  came  to  a  stop,  supported  on  each 
side  by  the  purple  hat  and  the  eyeglasses.  But  she 
was  silent.  As  if  by  intuition,  Viola  Sanderson  under- 
stood and  came  promptly  to  the  rescue. 

"And  did  you  come  to  meet  me!"  she  exclaimed. 
"How  perfectly  lovely!  And  it  is  just  like  coming 
home,  is  n't  it?" 

"How  do  you  do?"  "Yes'm!  If  you  please." 
"We're  quite  well,  thank  you"  —  stammered  miser- 
ably the  three  members  of  the  Committee  for  Making 
Our  Old  Home  Week  a  Big  Success.  Then  Mrs. 
French  added: 

"We've  come  to  take  you  to  the  rich  Mrs.  Whip- 
pie's." 

"Yes."  A  swift  shadow  came  over  the  singer's 
face.  "Oh,  but  my  aunt.  I  —  I  had  a  letter  — "  she 
hesitated. 


168  SISTER  SUE 

"Oh,  yes.  Mrs.  Jones,"  nodded  Mrs.  French,  quite 
certain  of  herself  now.  "She  did  ask  you.  I  was 
going  to  say  so,  but  I  forgot.  But  of  course  you  won't 
go  there." 

"Won't  go!"  Viola  Sanderson  looked  startled. 
"Aunt  Jane  is  n't  sick,  is  she?" 

"Oh,  no!  But  the  house  is  so  small." 

"And  plain." 

"And  worse  wall-paper  than  at  the  Inn." 

"And  feather  beds." 

"And  no  finger  bowls." 

"And  kerosene  lamps.   And  no  tiled  bathroom." 

"And  no  lovely  port  —  portcullis.  And  no  conserv- 
atory." 

"And  nothing  but  old-fashioned  furniture." 

One  after  another  these  dire  disadvantages  were 
rapidly  hinted  at  to  the  astonished  visitor  by  the 
three  flushed  and  perspiring  Committee  ladies.  And 
for  a  minute  Miss  Sanderson  stared  at  them  a  lit- 
tle confusedly,  as  she  listened.  Then  suddenly  she 
laughed.  And  when  the  last  came  about  the  old- 
fashioned  furniture  she  held  up  a  protesting  hand. 

"Oh!  But  I  adore  old-fashioned  furniture,"  she 
declared  brightly.  "And  I'll  have  Aunt  Jennie,  any- 
way, and  that's  what  I  want  most  of  anything.  So 
please  won't  you  take  me  to  Mrs.  Jones?" 

"Why,  yes.  Of  course.  If  you  really  want  us  to. 
But  — but— " 

"I  really  want  you  to."  Viola  Sanderson  spoke 
pleadingly,  earnestly.  She  smiled,  too. 

But  there  was  a  little  something  in  her  eyes  that 


GREETINGS  AND  ENCORES          169 

made  the  three  Committee  ladies,  after  one  glance 
into  her  face,  stammer: 

"Why,  yes  —  yes!  Of  course!"  And  they  hur- 
riedly led  the  way  to  the  waiting  automobile. 

By  night  the  town  was  filled  to  overflowing.  Every 
available  bed  in  town  had  been  appropriated.  Cots 
had  been  set  up  in  chamber-halls  and  in  lodge-rooms 
and  shelters  hastily  erected  on  private  grounds.  Pro- 
digious stocks  of  food  had  been  prepared,  and  one 
might  obtain  a  sandwich  or  a  piece  of  pie  at  almost 
every  corner. 

Four  guests  were  at  the  Gilmores'  house,  besides 
Gordon,  who  had  cut  short  his  camping  trip  by  five 
days  and  had  arrived  that  morning.  His  coming  was 
a  surprise  to  the  family,  for  he  had  written  that  he 
would  not  be  there.  But  a  telegram  announcing  his 
expected  arrival  came  just  in  time  to  prevent  Sister 
Sue  from  handing  over  his  unoccupied  bed  to  the  dis- 
traught Committee  for  Housing  Our  Guests. 

"Come?  Of  course,  I'd  come!"  he  cried,  when 
Sister  Sue  greeted  him  that  Tuesday  morning. 

"But  you  said  you  would  n't  —  not  but  what  we're 
delighted  to  have  you,  of  course,"  laughed  Sister  Sue, 
"only  why  the  sudden  change?" 

"  Cy  Bellows  —  ball-game.  We  got  the  news  'way 
out  in  camp  just  in  time.  The  idea  of  having  him 
here!  Say!  You  could  n't  hire  me  to  keep  away! 
The  fellow  who  brought  that  thing  about  did  some 
stunt,  let  me  tell  you." 

"Well,  the  'fellow'  was  Sister  Sue,"  boasted  May 
importantly. 


170  SISTER  SUE 

"Sue!" 

"Yes.  And  Viola  Sanderson,  and  Kate  Farnum, 
and  Donald  Kendall  —  they're  all  coming!  And 
Sister  Sue  did  that." 

"Great  work!  Well,  I  shan't  take  back  what  I 
said,"  retorted  Gordon.  "And  so  Donald  Kendall  is 
coming,  is  he?" 

"Yes  —  and  there  he  is  now!"  cried  May,  her  eyes 
on  the  tall  figure  coming  up  the  walk.  "And  look  at 
the  music  he 's  got.  Lucky  you  told  your  pupils  not 
to  come  to-day,  Sue,"  laughed  May  as  she  went  to 
the  door. 

"I  had  to.  I  found  that  out  yesterday  from  the 
pupils  themselves.  I  could  n't  hold  their  attention 
five  minutes." 

"Well,  you  can  hold  Donald  Kendall's  attention 
all  right,"  was  May's  parting  shot. 

"I'm  going  to  play  for  him.  He's  coming  to  prac- 
tice," explained  Sister  Sue  to  her  brother  in  answer 
to  the  somewhat  mystified  expression  on  Gordon's 
face.  "Oh,  Gordon!  His  playing  is  something  won- 
derful." 

A  minute  later  Donald  Kendall  was  in  the  room. 
He  said  good-morning,  and  he  acknowledged  the  in- 
troduction of  Gordon  with  a  measure  of  cordiality, 
but  it  all  was  plainly  only  a  necessary  formality  that 
had  to  precede  the  real  business  of  the  day.  And  in 
another  minute  he  had  indicated  what  that  business 
was. 

"I've  brought  two  or  three  things  here  I'd  like 
to  have  you  try  once,  please,"  he  said  to  Sister  Sue. 


GREETINGS  AND  ENCORES          171 

"Here's  that  largo  of  Liszt's.    We  might  decide  to 
play  that  instead  of  the  concerto." 

On  the  veranda,  a  few  minutes  later,  Gordon  ac- 
costed his  sister  May,  who  had  taken  her  writing- 
pad  to  the  vine-shaded  corner,  with: 
"How  long  is  that  chap  going  to  stay?" 
"Till  noon,  probably.  But  he '11  be  back  again  after 
dinner  (or  luncheon,  I  believe  the  Kendalls  call  it), 
I'll  warrant.  The  creature  has  no  sense  of  time 
(except  his  own!)  when  he's  playing,  that's  plain  to 
be  seen.  He  stayed  till  half -past  eleven  last  night. 
Then  something  —  maybe  I  dropped  a  hint  —  made 
him  take  out  his  watch,  and  I  saw  his  face  fall.  *  I  sup- 
pose I'll  have  to  go,  it's  so  late,'  he  says  with  a  frown, 
'but  to-morrow  —  perhaps  — '  'Yes,  to-morrow  I'll 
be  very  glad  to,'  says  Sister  Sue.  But  even  then  he 
stayed  ten  minutes  longer,  playing  over  and  over 
again  a  little  phrase  that  he  wanted  to  get  just  so. 
Poor  Martin!  He  stood  it  till  half -past  ten,  hoping 
for  a  moment  with  Sister  Sue  to  himself.  Then  he 
gave  up  in  despair  and  left  —  which  was  best  —  for 
it  was  exactly  a  quarter  to  twelve  when  Donald 
Kendall  strode  down  the  walk  to  go  home." 
"Um-m!  Martin '11  be  getting  jealous." 
"Jealous,  nothing!"  scoffed  May.  "You  can't  be 
jealous  of  a  walking  fiddle !  I  don't  believe  that  Don- 
ald Kendall  knows  this  minute  whether  Sister  Sue  is 
the  distractingly  pretty  girl  she  is,  or  whether  she  is 
squint-eyed  and  freckled  with  a  wart  on  her  nose. 
No,  Martin  Kent  need  never  be  jealous  of  him.  But 
he  can  play.  Listen!"  And  she  held  up  her  finger  as 


172  SISTER  SUE 

the  strains  of  exquisite  melody  floated  through  the 
open  door. 

Wednesday  came.  It  was  a  perfect  day.  Certainly 
all  roads  led  to  Gilmoreville  that  day.  And  long 
before  ten  o'clock  —  the  hour  for  the  ball-game  — 
they  were  black  with  cars,  carriages,  wagons,  and 
even  hay- wagons  —  packed  to  the  limit  with  cheer- 
ing, horn-blowing  humanity.  Extra  trains  brought 
more,  and  by  ten  o'clock  there  was  no  doubt  as  to  the 
success  of  the  Gilmoreville  Old  Home  Day  if  the  size 
of  the  crowds  was  any  indication. 

And  it  was  a  success.  Unquestionably,  it  was  a 
success.  Promptly  at  ten  came  the  Ball-Game.  It 
lasted  two  hours.  The  manufacturers'  nine  won,  of 
course,  as  was  expected,  but  they  very  unmistakably 
had  to  fight  for  their  victory,  and  the  wildly  ex- 
cited spectators  certainly  got  their  money's  worth  of 
thrills.  At  noon  came  the  Banquet  with  the  honored 
guests  at  the  head  table  where  all  might  be  seen.  At 
two  o'clock  came  the  Entertainment  in  the  Big  Tent. 
The  brass  band  covered  itself  with  glory  in  the  open- 
ing overture  which  it  had  been  practicing  for  weeks. 
Miss  Kate  Farnum,  the  novelist,  in  a  remarkable 
costume  which  was  a  cross  between  a  kimona  and  a 
ball-dress,  read  thirty  minutes  from  her  latest  novel 
after  first  making  sure  that  she  had  a  glass  of  water 
near  by  and  that  the  ushers  understood  her  orders 
for  none  to  be  admitted  during  her  reading.  She  was 
very  dramatic.  Her  voice  rose  and  swelled  —  almost 
shrieked  —  only  to  die  away  in  a  hoarse  whisper  that 
sent  delirious  shivers  down  unaccustomed  spinal 


GREETINGS  AND  ENCORES          173 

columns.  She  was  applauded  wildly,  which  brought 
only  her  secretary  to  the  front  of  the  stage  to  an- 
nounce that  owing  to  the  great  nervous  exhaustion 
following  her  readings  it  was  impossible  for  Miss 
Farnum  to  respond  to  any  encore  —  she  must  beg, 
therefore,  to  be  excused.  This  was  received  with 
an  uncertain  applause  that  was  promptly  hushed 
as  if  a  restraining  hand  had  been  put  forth  with  a 
shocked:  "Hush!  You  mustn't  clap,  because  she 
isn't  coming." 

The  Unitarian  minister  then  got  up  to  introduce 
the  singer.  The  Baptist  and  Congregationalist  min- 
isters respectively  had  introduced  the  band  and  the 
novelist  with  great  flourish  of  verbal  eloquence.  It 
remained  for  the  Unitarian  to  outdo  them  if  possible. 
And  he  quite  succeeded.  Then  appeared  Viola  San- 
derson, in  a  blaze  of  green  and  gold  and  iridescence 
that  "just  to  see"  was  well  worth  the  price  of  admis- 
sion (according  to  Mrs.  French  and  her  of  the  purple 
hat).  There  came  a  surprise  then.  The  most  of  the 
audience  had  never  before  heard  a  human  songbird 
who  trilled  and  warbled  in  limpid  notes  of  melody 
that  rivaled  the  flute  and  soared  away  above  their 
heads  to  unbelievable  heights  of  liquid  purity.  And 
when  the  exquisite  voice  had  died  into  silence,  there 
came  a  burst  of  applause  that  would  not  be  denied, 
and  that  very  plainly  declared  that  no  secretarial  re- 
sponse would  do  this  time.  But  they  need  not  have 
feared.  Again,  and  yet  again,  did  the  singer  return  to 
make  them  marvel  that  such  wondrous  sounds  could 
emanate  from  a  human  throat,  until  at  last,  with 


174  SISTER  SUE 

smiles  and  bows  and  a  deprecatory  gesture  of  "  Really, 
dear  people  —  I  can't,  any  more!"  was  she  allowed 
to  rest. 

It  was  left  for  the  Methodist  minister  then  to  outdo 
himself  and  all  his  brethren  in  his  verbal  triumphs 
heralding  their  distinguished  violinist,  Mr.  Donald 
Kendall.  And  once  again  they  went  wild,  those  men 
and  women  and  children  who  never  before  knew  that 
"just  a  fiddle"  could  bring  to  their  ears  the  winds 
from  the  mountains,  the  voices  from  the  sea,  the 
shouts  and  songs  of  triumphant  multitudes,  and  the 
despairing  wail  of  a  woman  who  has  lost  her  soul;  or 
the  tripping  feet  of  fairies  in  the  moonlight;  or  the 
tramp  of  vast  armies  marching  on  to  victory.  Donald 
Kendall  was  gracious  but  unsmiling.  He  came  back 
twice,  and  rewarded  their  enthusiasm  with  a  dainty 
little  scherzo,  then  with  a  very  tender  rendering  of 
"Home,  Sweet  Home,"  which  brought  the  house  to 
its  feet  in  the  wildest  of  cheers,  notwithstanding  the 
scornful  predictions  the  violinist's  mother  had  made 
two  days  before.  He  played  it  this  time  unaccom- 
panied, however.  It  is  doubtful,  though,  if  half  a 
dozen  disinterested  persons  in  the  audience  noticed 
whether  he  was  accompanied  or  not.  Those  who 
knew  and  understood,  however,  realized  that  the 
quiet  little  woman  at  the  piano  was  really  depicting 
the  very  heights  of  her  art,  by  keeping  her  playing  so 
nicely  attuned  to  his  that  it  was  but  a  background 
against  which  his  performance  showed  clear  and  dis- 
tinct in  all  its  wondrous  brilliance  and  beauty.  And 
when  the  last  echo  of  the  applause  had  died  away,  the 


GREETINGS  AND  ENCORES          175 

huge  throng  drew  a  long  breath  and  dispersed,  telling 
of  the  marvels  they  had  heard. 

In  the  evening  came  the  Reception  and  Ball,  when 
the  guests  of  honor  stood  in  line  and  became  just 
folks  with  hands  that  one  might  take,  and  faces  that 
one  might  gaze  into,  and  say  to,  "I'm  so  glad  to 
meet  you!"  Even  the  writer  lady  consented  to  en- 
dure this  for  a  good  half -hour  —  before  she  pleaded 
fatigue  and  retired  to  one  of  the  thronelike  chairs 
which  had  been  prepared  for  the  honored  guests 
when  the  Ball  should  begin. 

The  Ball,  too,  was  a  success.  True,  the  writer  lady 
declined  gracefully  to  dance,  and  Donald  Kendall 
looked  on  from  afar  with  eyes  that  were  a  trifle  bored 
if  not  scornful.  But  Cy  Bellows  danced  with  every 
girl  on  the  floor  —  at  least  a  few  times  —  besides 
bringing  down  the  house  with  a  solo  clog  dance  be- 
tween two  numbers  on  the  programme.  The  singer, 
too,  danced.  She  danced  with  every  daring  man  who 
asked  her,  and  with  several  who  did  not  —  except 
with  their  pleading  eyes.  And  she  left  with  them  all 
the  memory  of  a  charming  smile  and  a  cordial  word 
which  would  long  be  treasured  by  the  fortunate  re- 
cipients. 

Sister  Sue  was  on  the  floor,  and  Sister  Sue  danced 
frequently.  She  was  radiantly  smiling  and  her  eyes 
were  bright,  but  there  was,  nevertheless,  a  tired  lit- 
tle something,  somewhere,  that  the  discerning  could 
plainly  see. 

She  said,  yes,  oh,  yes,  it  had  been  a  wonderful  day, 
and  the  Entertainment  was  indeed  very  fine.  And, 


176  SISTER  SUE 

yes,  she  had  enjoyed  it  all  greatly.  To  the  one  or  two 
who  said:  "But  I  heard  you  wrote  the  letters  and  got 
all  these  great  people  here  —  so  we  owe  it  all  to  you ! " 
she  answered:  "Nonsense!  What  do  those  few  let- 
ters amount  to?  Any  one  could  have  written  them.  I 
did  n't  do  anything  special!"  And  then  she  would 
laugh  again  sweetly  and  say  "Nonsense!"  as  she 
turned  away. 

And  when  the  last  trainload  of  cheering  visitors 
had  chugged  out  of  the  little  station,  and  the  last 
automobile  and  hay-wagon  had  carried  its  burden  of 
horn-blowing  humanity  well  out  of  hearing,  the  town 
drew  a  long  breath  that  was  yet  a  deep  sigh  of  con- 
tent and  laid  itself  down  to  sleep.  Gilmoreville  Old 
Home  Day  had  most  certainly  been  an  unqualified 
success. 

And  in  all  the  town  there  was  probably  only  one 
whose  eyes  were  smarting  with  tears  and  whose 
throat  was  tightening  with  a  half -stifled  sob.  But 
then,  in  all  the  town  there  was  only  one  trying  to 
banish  into  the  oblivion  of  forgetfulness  that  siren 
call  of  "Encore!  Encore!  Susanna  Gilmore !  Encore! 
Encore!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DEPARTING  GUESTS 

VEKY  early  Thursday  morning,  before  the  first  of 
Sister  Sue's  pupils  were  due,  Donald  Kendall  rang 
the  Gilmores'  doorbell. 

Delia  admitted  him  to  the  living-room,  then  went 
upstairs,  where  Sister  Sue  was  telling  her  father  for 
the  third  time  that  morning  all  about  the  Old  Home 
Day  Celebration. 

"The  fiddler  —  he  wants  you,  Miss,"  said  Delia, 
with  a  crispness  that  spoke  loudly  of  her  dishes  cool- 
ing in  the  kitchen  sink. 

"Me?"   Sister  Sue  showed  her  surprise. 

"He  said  you,  Miss.  I  put  him  in  the  sittin'-room." 
And  Delia,  whose  especial  detestation  was  to  answer 
the  doorbell,  particularly  in  the  morning,  turned  and 
clattered  down  the  back  stairway. 

More  slowly  Sister  Sue  turned  toward  the  front 
part  of  the  house.  There  was  still  a  faint  questioning 
in  her  eyes  when  she  entered  the  living-room,  where 
Donald  Kendall  was  waiting  alone. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Kendall,"  holding  out  her 
hand. 

"Good-morning."  Donald  Kendall  advanced  hur- 
riedly. He  had  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  come  with  a 
bit  of  news  too  good  to  keep.  "It 's  early,  I  know,  but 
I  had  to  come  right  away.  It  came  to  me  in  the  night 
what  I  could  do." 


178  SISTER  SUE 

"What  you  could  do?"  murmured  Sister  Sue,  still 
with  a  slight  frown.  "Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Ken- 
dall." 

"I  must  n't  stop  long."  He  dropped  himself  into  a 
chair  as  she  took  her  seat.  "I'll  have  to  go  back  and 
write  to  Dodge  right  away,  of  course.  It  did  n't 
come  to  me  until  in  the  night  what  I  could  do.  But 
now  I  know.  I've  decided  to  have  you  for  my  ac- 
companist, Miss  Gilmore.  I'll  pay  you  enough,  of 
course,  so  you  can  take  your  sister,  or  any  one  you 
like,  along  with  you  for  companionship  and  pro- 
priety. But  that's  a  mere  detail.  We  can  settle  that 
later.  There  will  be  no  trouble  about  compensation, 
Miss  Gilmore.  I  start  West  on  my  first  concert  tour 
in  about  two  weeks.  I  thought  you  ought  to  know  as 
soon  as  possible." 

Sister  Sue  had  come  erect  in  her  chair.  Her  face 
had  shown  blank  incomprehension  during  the  first 
half  of  his  speech,  then  amazement,  then  anger. 
There  was  scorn  in  her  eyes  now,  scorn  with  a  tinge 
of  amusement. 

"Well,  yes,  I  should  want  to  know  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble if  I  were  going  on  a  concert  trip  with  you,"  she 
said. 

"Yes,  of  course,  of  course!"  He  nodded  abstract- 
edly. He  was  not  looking  at  her  now.  "As  it  is,  there 
is  all  too  short  a  time  to  practice.  But  you  are  such 
a  good  reader  that  — 

She  interrupted  him. 

"Mr.  Kendall.  Just  a  minute,  please.  You  don't 
understand.  I  said  if  I  were  going  on  a  concert  trip 


DEPARTING  GUESTS  179 

with  you;  but  I'm  not.  Why,  Mr.  Kendall,  I  can't 
play  your  accompaniments  for  you!" 

The  man  gave  an  impatient  gesture. 

"But  I  say  you  can!  And  I  rather  think  I  know. 
You  are  away  ahead  of  Dodge;  you  are  away  ahead 
of  -  He  paused,  then  went  on  with  somewhat 
pompous  impressi veness :  "Miss  Gilmore,  I  can  hon- 
estly say  that  never  have  I  had  any  one  who  plays 
my  accompaniments  as  you  do.  You  never  drag, 
never  pull.  You  are  always  superbly  right  there  — 
with  me." 

He  sat  back  with  the  gesture  of  one  who  has  settled 
a  matter  once  for  all. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Donald  Kendall."  Sister  Sue 
was  still  quietly  smiling.  "  That  is  high  praise,  I  know. 
Yet  still  I  must  say  I  cannot  play  your  accompani- 
ments for  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"It  is  absurd,  out  of  the  question.  I  cannot  go 
away  like  that." 

"But  you  may  take  your  sister,  a  companion,  any 
one.  I  told  you  that." 

She  shook  her  head  a  bit  impatiently  now. 

"You  don't  understand.  I  can't  leave  my  home. 
I  have  duties  here  —  my  father  —  the  home  —  my 
brother  and  sister  — " 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  he  interrupted  with  the 
rudeness  of  a  spoiled  autocrat  whose  will  is  crossed. 
"You  have  some  duties  to  yourself,  have  n't  you? 
Any  one  can  do  your  work  here.  But  the  chance 
I  offer  you —  See  here,  young  woman,  you  don't 


180  SISTER  SUE 

seem  to  realize  that  you  have  talent  —  extraordinary 
talent.  Are  you  going  to  waste  it  all  in  teaching 
scales  and  five-finger  exercises  to  a  dozen  urchins 
who'll  never  know  the  difference  between  a  Bee- 
thoven symphony  and  'Johnny,  Get  Your  Gun'? 
Have  n't  you  any  ambition?  Don't  you  ever  want  to 
do  something  worth  while  in  the  world?" 

Long  before  he  had  finished  speaking  she  was  on 
her  feet.  There  was  no  smile  on  her  lips  now  nor 
amusement  in  her  eyes.  She  was  white  and  shaking. 
Her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  was  not  steady. 

"Ambition?  Something  worth  while  in  the  world?  " 
she  repeated.  And  then,  all  reserve  swept  aside,  she 
told  him  her  heart's  longings.  She  told  him  what  the 
great  music-master  had  said.  She  told  him  what  she 
hoped  and  hungered  to  do.  And  so  vividly  did  she 
tell  it  that  even  the  startled  man  across  the  room 
seemed  to  hear  at  least  the  echo  of  that  call:  "En- 
core! Encore!  Susanna  Gilmore!  Encore!  Encore!" 

She  paused  then,  but  only  for  breath.  In  a  moment 
she  went  on  chokingly.  She  told  him  of  the  failure  and 
all  the  horrors  and  terrors  that  had  walked  in  its  wake. 
She  told  of  her  father's  condition  now  and  of  how 
dependent  on  her  he  was.  She  spoke  of  Gordon  and 
of  May  and  her  hopes  for  them.  And,  as  she  talked, 
Donald  Kendall  was  irresistibly  compelled  to  see  that 
the  position  of  Sister  Sue  in  her  home  was  one  around 
which,  as  on  a  pivot,  the  whole  family  had  for  years 
revolved.  All  the  while  she  spoke  kindly,  yet  fer- 
vently, with  little  half -finished  phrases  more  eloquent 
by  far  than  if  they  had  been  completed.  It  was  a  rush 


DEPARTING  GUESTS  181 

as  of  long-pent-up  forces  that  had  suddenly  found 
vent.  Then,  without  warning,  in  the  middle  of  a  sen- 
tence, she  broke  off  with  a  little  sob : 

"Oh,  what  have  I  said!  What  have  I  said!"  she 
moaned.  "I  must  have  been  beside  myself  to  talk  like 
this  to  you  —  to  any  one !  But  the  things  you  said  - 
If  you  can,  forget;  and  — "  Then  very  calmly, 
"There's  Carrie  now,  for  her  lesson.  If  you  will 
excuse  me,  please." 

The  next  moment  Donald  Kendall,  at  first  cha- 
grined, then  dumbfounded  and  dismayed,  and  with 
a  feeling  almost  of  humiliation,  found  himself  alone. 
Almost  at  once  came  the  droning  one-two-three,  one- 
two-three,  one-two-three,  from  the  room  across  the 
hall,  and  then  Mr.  Donald  Kendall  arose,  picked  up 
his  hat,  and  went  home. 

Although,  as  the  words  would  imply,  Gilmoreville 
Old  Home  Week  ostensibly  continued  through  the 
entire  seven  days,  yet  in  reality  there  was  but  little 
in  the  way  of  entertainment  or  of  interest  after  that 
wonderful  Wednesday.  There  were  a  few  family  re- 
unions, and  sundry  parties  and  picnics.  Viola  San- 
derson stayed  through  the  week  with  her  aunt  and 
apparently  minded  not  at  all  the  privation  of  "no 
portcullis  and  conservatory."  Cy  Bellows  left  on  the 
morning  train  Thursday,  followed  by  the  ringing 
cheers  of  half  the  town  as  long  as  the  train  was  in 
sight.  Miss  Kate  Farnum  and  her  secretary  left 
on  the  same  train.  Hearing  the  shouts  Miss  Far- 
num looked  out  of  the  window  and  smiled  and  bowed 
very  graciously  to  the  cheering  throng.  She  seemed 


182  SISTER  SUE 

pleased,  better  pleased,  perhaps,  than  she  would  have 
been  had  she  known  that  those  shouts  were  not  for 
her,  but  for  the  popular  ball-player  in  the  car  behind. 
But  she  did  not  know,  which  did  Cy  Bellows  no 
harm  and  may  possibly  have  done  her  some  good. 

Donald  Kendall  left,  too,  that  same  Thursday, 
though  later  in  the  day.  In  the  afternoon  he  went 
over  to  the  Gilmores'  and  said  his  stiffly  proper  fare- 
wells. He  thanked  Sister  Sue  formally  for  playing  his 
accompaniments  so  finely,  but  he  avoided  her  eyes 
except  for  a  brief  instant  at  the  last,  and  then  he 
did  n't  meet  them,  for  Sister  Sue,  herself,  was  look- 
ing somewhere  else.  He  shook  hands  with  May  and 
Gordon,  and  then  hurried  away. 

"I  don't  imagine  he's  improved  much  —  in  man- 
ners," observed  May  as  the  gate  clicked  under  his 
hand. 

Sister  Sue  did  not  reply.  She  was  very  busy  over 
some  music  at  the  piano.  Then  the  next  moment 
Jennie  Howard  came  for  her  lesson. 

Jennie  had  a  poor  lesson.  It  was  plain  to  be  seen 
that  she  had  practiced  very  little.  She  bungled  her 
scales  and  hit  innumerable  wrong  notes  in  her 
"piece."  She  played  inattentively  and  out  of  time. 
It  was  the  same  with  all  the  pupils  that  came  after- 
wards, until  by  night  Sister  Sue  was  completely  worn 
out  with  the  fret  and  annoyance  of  it  all.  She  was 
still  very  tired  when  Martin  Kent  came  that  evening; 
so  tired  that  she  was  not  like  herself.  She  sat  back 
in  her  chair  on  the  veranda,  listless  and  preoccupied, 
while  May  and  Martin  chatted  over  the  events  of  the 


DEPARTING  GUESTS  183 

day  before.  Frequently  they  turned  to  her  with  a 
question,  and  she  answered,  but  still  listless  and  still 
preoccupied.  Yes,  Viola  Sanderson  was  very  winning 
and  very  affable  indeed.  No,  she  did  n't  care  much 
for  the  novelist.  Yes,  Donald  Kendall  was  a  fine 
player.  Yes,  she  danced  with  Cy  Bellows,  once.  No, 
she  did  n't  call  him  handsome.  Yes  and  no;  no  and 
yes.  That  was  all. 

When  May  went  into  the  house  after  a  time  and 
left  the  two  together,  and  wThen  Sister  Sue  gave  an 
abstracted  "no"  to  his  last  question  asking  her  if  she 
had  ever  seen  worse  weather  than  that  of  the  day 
before,  Martin  Kent  promptly  remonstrated: 

"Sue!  For  Heaven's  sake,  what's  the  matter  with 
you  to-night?"  he  asked.  "No,  no;  yes,  yes.  That's 
all  anybody  can  get  out  of  you.  And  I  Ve  just  proved 
that  when  you  say  even  that  much  you  have  n't  any 
idea  as  to  wThat  you  are  really  saying.  I  asked  you  if 
you  had  ever  seen  worse  weather  than  we  had  yester- 
day, and  you  very  serenely  answered  'no';  while,  as 
it  so  happened,  there  could  n't  have  been  a  more  per- 
fect day  —  and  you  know  it." 

The  girl  aroused  herself  and  laughed  shame- 
facedly. 

"Martin,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  horrid,  I  know 
it;  and  I  was  n't  thinking  of  what  you  were  saying. 
But  I  will  now,  I  promise.  Try  me." 

"But  what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Tired,  I  suppose." 

"Of  course  you  're  tired !  Digging  at  that  old  piano 
every  minute  since  Monday  evening  when  that  fool 


184  SISTER  SUE 

violinist  first  found  out  you  could  play.   Did  n't  the 
man  have  any  sense?" 

Sister  Sue  laughed. 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  think'he  had  a  su- 
perabundance of  it  —  when  he  got  his  violin  in  hand. 
But  I  did  n't  mind  that,  really.  The  long  hours  of 
practice  —  I  loved  them.  It  —  it  was  to-day  —  all 
day  —  those  impossible  children  stumbling  through 
their  lessons ! "  She  paused,  then  went  on  with  a 
whimsical  smile,  "You  know,  it  is  n't  easy  to  come 
down  to  peeling  potatoes  after  having  had  a  little 
fling  at  eating  frostings." 

"H-mm!  I  suppose  not."  Martin  Kent  was  still 
fretting.  "But  that  eternal  practicing  for  that  exact- 
ing man  had  something  to  do  with  it,  just  the  same," 
he  maintained.  "It  was  wearing,  very  wearing." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  did  n't  feel  it;  not  that.  I  loved  it.  But,  Mar- 
tin !  You  should  have  been  here  earlier  that  Monday 
night,  when  he  first  came  in,  and  heard  the  instruc- 
tions the  dear  man  gave  me  about  not  dragging  and 
not  playing  at  all  if  I  could  n't  keep  up  with  him." 

"Yes,  I  know.  May  told  me,"  grunted  the  man. 
"Impertinent  puppy!" 

"He  was  n't  exactly  polite,"  laughed  Sister  Sue, 
"but,  as  Gordon  says,  'he  can  play!" 

"So  can  you,"  retorted  Martin  Kent.  "But  he 
need  n't  think,  just  because  of  that,  he  can  keep  you 
playing  for  him  all  the  time." 

"I  don't  —  think  —  he  does."  An  amused  expres- 
sion had  come  to  Sister  Sue's  face.  "He  said  this 


DEPARTING  GUESTS  185 

morning  —  but  never  mind,"  she  broke  off  with  a 
shrug  and  a  quick  ^change  of  manner,  "he's  gone 
now." 

"Yes,  he's  gone  now,"  echoed  Martin  Kent  with 
a  sigh  that  was  obvious  in  its  content.  "And  as  for 
those  tiresome,  never-ending  children  —  they  '11  be 
gone  one  of  these  days.  Just  wait  till  my  'Trixie* 
makes  a  hit!" 

"I'm  waiting,"  smiled  Sister  Sue  mischievously. 

"You  don't  believe  in  it,  but  listen.  I  received  a 
letter  from  the  publishers  to-day  and  they  report  a 
very  good  advance  sale.  A  very  good  one,"  he  re- 
peated impressively  with  aggrieved  emphasis. 

But  Sister  Sue  only  laughed  again  and  said:  "I'm 
waiting." 

With  the  passing  of  Old  Home  Week  Gilmoreville 
settled  down  and  went  about  its  usual  business.  With 
the  tent  removed  and  the  sidewalk  attractions  ban- 
ished, there  was  little  but  memory  to  remind  the  vil- 
lagers of  that  one  glorious  week  of  debauch. 

In  the  Gilmore  homestead  it  seemed  to  Sister  Sue 
that  life  had  reverted  even  more  than  ever  into  a  mere 
matter  of  potato-peeling  for  her.  Martin  Kent  had 
gone  back  to  the  city,  and  she  and  May  told  each 
other  they  did  not  know  how  much  his  breezy  visits 
meant  to  them  —  until  they  were  without  them. 
School  had  opened  and  Gordon  was  enrolled  as  a 
pupil,  but  he  was  plainly  holding  himself  very  much 
aloof  from  the  other  boys  and  also  making  himself 
and  everybody  else  miserable.  May  had  definitely 


186  SISTER  SUE 

given  up  trying  to  enter  college.  If  there  was  not 
enough  money  coming  in,  she  said,  to  send  her  de- 
cently and  properly  she  did  not  care  to  go.  As  for 
trying  to  pay  her  way  partly  by  waiting  on  tables,  or 
darning  the  other  girls'  silk  stockings,  she  preferred 
not  to  go  at  all  rather  than  do  these  things.  Much  to 
Sister  Sue's  disappointment,  therefore,  she  had  given 
up  all  idea  of  a  college  education. 

"But,  May!  I  could  help  you  a  lot,  and  maybe 
I  could  pay  it  all,  after  a  little,"  pleaded  Sister  Sue. 

"Yes,  and  how  should  I  feel  with  all  my  old  friends 
swelling  around  in  their  good  clothes  and  me  behind 
their  chairs  waiting  on  them,  and  begging  for  their 
silk  stockings  to  darn!  Mercy!  Sue,  I  couldn't  do  it." 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  hard,"  replied  the  elder 
girl. 

"Besides,"  avowed  May  with  a  sudden  but  some- 
what forced  display  of  unselfish  consideration  for  her 
sister,  "as  if  I'd  go  away,  anyhow,  and  leave  you 
slaving  here  at  home  to  pay  my  bills.  Certainly  not  !  " 

"But,  May,  you  need  it.  You  need  it  in  your  work. 


"I'm  going  to  write  here  at  home.  Martin  says  I 
can.  I  told  him  before  he  went  away  that  I  was  n't 
going  to  let  you  slave  yourself  to  death  helping  me 
through  college."  May  pursed  her  lips  virtuously. 
"And  we  have  it  all  fixed.  I'm  to  write  my  story, 
send  it  to  him  for  correction,  then  I  copy  it  and  send 
it  to  an  editor.  That  won't  cost  anything  but  stamps 
and  paper  and  typewriter  ribbons.  Martin  's  going  to 
send  me  his  old  machine,  you  know.  I  told  you  that." 


DEPARTING  GUESTS  187 

"Yes,  you  told  me  that.  Martin 's  very  kind,  very 
kind.  Still,  that  is  not  like  a  college  for  you,"  replied 
Sister  Sue  as  she  turned  away. 

In  the  hall  she  met  her  father  with  his  garden 
trowel  in  his  hand.  "I'm  going  out  to  do  a  little  dig- 
ging," he  said.  "I  think  I'll  transplant  some  of  those 
asters." 

"Yes,  but,  Father,  it's  too  cold,"  she  remonstrated, 
gently  taking  the  trowel  away  and  turning  him  to- 
ward the  stairs.  "And  you  have  n't  even  your  hat  on. 
Come,  dearie,  let's  go  back  up  to  your  room.  You 
know  it 's  September  now  and  we  can't  dig  so  much 
in  the  garden." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  see,  I  see."  Meekly  the  old  man  let 
himself  be  led  back  to  his  room. 

It  was  never  any  trouble  to  make  John  Gilmore 
"see."  He  was  always  "seeing"  whatever  they 
wanted  him  to  see.  It  was  only  that  they  had  to  make 
him  see  the  same  things  so  many  times,  over  and  over. 
And  now  that  the  weather  was  cooler  and  he  could 
not  be  out  of  doors  so  much  among  his  beloved  flowers, 
he  was  more  restless  and  uneasy  than  ever,  taxing 
Sister  Sue's  tact  and  patience  and  ingenuity  to  the 
utmost. 

And  there  also  were  the  pupils.  Unmistakably  Sis- 
ter Sue  was  finding  it  hard  to  come  down  to  potato- 
peeling  after  her  "fling  at  the  frosting."  With  the 
exquisite  notes  of  a  Beethoven  concerto  played  by 
Donald  Kendall  in  her  ears,  it  was  much  harder  to 
listen  to  the  bungling  rendition  of  the  day's  exercise 
in  C  major  played  by  Susie  Smith. 


188  SISTER  SUE 

It  was  all  so  humdrum,  so  hopelessly  commonplace, 
so  hopelessly  of  no  account.  Sister  Sue  sighed  to  her- 
self at  times.  And  when  she  had  so  hoped  to  make 
something  of  her  life  really  worth  while ! 

To  Granny  Preston  she  frequently  flew  for  refuge. 

"When  I  just  can't  stand  it  another  minute,  I 
have  to  come  to  you,"  she  panted  one  day,  dropping 
breathlessly  into  a  chair.  "You  don't  mind?" 

"Mind?  Of  course  not.  I'm  glad  to  have  you.  It 
gives  me  something  to  talk  of  besides  my  aches  an' 
pains  an'  troubles." 

"As  if  you  ever  let  anybody  know  you  had  any!" 
scoffed  Sister  Sue. 

"Pooh!"  With  a  wave  of  her  hand  the  old  lady 
tossed  this  aside.  "Well,  child,  what  is  it  to-day? 
Did  Susie  Smith  strike  C  instead  of  G,  or  is  Miss  May 
crying  over  a  story  the  editor  would  n't  take?" 

"Neither.  Oh,  yes,  both."  Sister  Sue  corrected 
herself  with  a  faint  smile.  "We  always  have  those 
with  us,  like  the  poor.  But,  Mrs.  Preston,  it 's  really 
serious  this  time.  I'm  worried,  and  I  haven't  the 
faintest  idea  what  to  do." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Gordon." 

"The  school?  He  don't  like  it,  I  suppose." 

"Oh,  that's  better  now.  He's  gotten  over  his 
snobbishness.  I  did  talk  him  out  of  that.  And  he's 
doing  splendidly  in  his  studies,  too.  The  head 
master,  himself,  told  me  so.  But  I'm  beginning  to 
wish  now  he  did  n't  like  the  boys  quite  so  well.  He 's 
with  them  all  the  time,  out  of  school  hours,  hanging 


DEPARTING  GUESTS  189 

around  the  station  and  the  hotel  and  Dan  Bowles's 
pool-room." 

"Why  don't  you  have  them  here?" 

"Here!  In  that  tomb  of  a  parlor  with  th«  hair- 
wreath  and  the  coffin-plates?  Suppose  you  try  get- 
ting them  to  come!" 

"I  will,  if  you'll  do  what  I  say." 

Sister  Sue  stared  frankly.  Then  she  gave  a  short 
laugh. 

"Oh,  I'll  do  what  you  say  all  right,  I'll  promise. 
Only  I  warn  you,  this  is  no  case  of  too  much  soda  in 
the  pie-crust,  Mrs.  Preston.  But  I'll  do  what  you 
say  even  if  it's  to  give  them  a  pink  tea." 

"Thanks.  That's  just  about  what  I  want  you  to 
do,"  nodded  the  little  old  lady  imperturbably. 

"Mrs.  Preston!" 

"Well?" 

"You  don't  understand!  I'm  trying  to  tell  you 
that  the  boy  won't  even  stay  at  home  with  me!  He 
wants  to  be  off  all  the  time.  All  he  wants  to  do  is  to 
hang  around  those  horrid  places  and  smoke  with  the 
boys,  and  some  of  them  are  not  nice  boys.  They 
smoke  and  drink  and  gamble  and  swear,  and  —  Gor- 
don is  getting  awful  in  his  manner  and  in  his  language, 
so  rough  and  coarse.  And  you  talk  of  giving  him  a 
pink  tea!" 

"Gordon's  all  right.  He's  just  trying  to  be  a  man 
among  men.  I  know;  I've  had  boys  of  my  own." 

"But  he's  always  been  a  gentleman  before,"  fal- 
tered the  girl:  "even  though  he  has  smoked  cigarettes 
in  spite  of  anything  I  would  say.  But  never  before 


190  SISTER  SUE 

has  he  been  coarse  and  rough  and  uncouth  in  his 
ways." 

"H-mm.  Does  he  dance?" 

"He  used  to  —  down  there  in  Boston  —  during 
school,  of  course.  And  they  were  beginning  to  have 
little  dances  among  themselves  when  —  when  we 
came  away." 

"H-mm.   Care  for  girls?" 

Sister  Sue  flushed. 

"I  — I  don't  know." 

"H-mm.  Well,  I  know.  He  either  does  and  owns 
up  to  it,  or  does  and  won't  own  up  to  it.  I  know ;  I  'vo 
had  boys  of  my  own.  I  know  a  few  other  things,  too. 
I  have  ways  of  finding  out  things  —  in  this  town.  I 
know  that  Kitty  Sanborn  wanted  a  dance  last  winter 
and  her  ma  would  n't  let  her  have  one  'cause  't  would 
hurt  their  nice  new  hardwood  floors.  And  I  know  that 
Bessie  Merrill  wanted  a  party  a  month  ago  and  her  ma 
would  n't  let  her  have  it  'cause 't  would  cost  too  much 
to  feed  all  them  young  folks.  And  I  know  that  Mis* 
White  and  Mis'  Anderson  won't  let  their  children 
ever  bring  home  company  'cause  they  clutter  up  and 
wear  out  the  carpets  and  bang  up  the  furniture.  And 
I  know  that—" 

But  Sister  Sue  interrupted. 

"You  don't  have  to  say  another  word  —  not  an- 
other word!"  the  girl  said,  jumping  to  her  feet, 
laughing  and  dancing  up  and  down  on  her  toes.  "I 
know  it  all  now.  And  he  shall  have  his  pink  tea  — 
you  wait  and  see." 

"Molasses  candy  and  popcorn  make  a  fine  treat, 


f.\  i.-':  191 

and  they  ain't  a  rnite  costly,"  called  out  Mrs.  Preston 
as  her  visitor  flew  out  of  the  door. 

Hurrying  down  the  [jack  stairs,  Sister  Sue  was  mut- 
tering to  "  U 'ear  out  the  carpets  and  bang  up 
the  furniture!  Indeed!  Humph!"  Going  straight 
into  the  stiff,  cheerless  parlor  she  stopped  and  gazed 
at  the  things  about  her.  "If  I  take  away  the  hair- 
'h  anrj  the  coffin-plates,  that  will  help  some," 
she  mused.  Then  she  pulled  up  a  shade  and  moved 
two  chairs  out  of  line.  "And  if  I  put  in  a  few  extra 
chairs  —  that  will  help  some  more." 

Five  minutes  later,  the  hair-wreath  under  one  arm 
ami  the  framed  coffin-plates  tinder  the  other,  she  met 
May  on  the  stairway. 

"For  Heaven's  sake!  What  are  you  doing?"  ex- 
claimed May. 

"Getting  ready  to  give  a  pink  tea  to  your  brother," 
answered  Sister  Sue,  proceeding  on  her  way  with  a 
chuckle  regardless  of  the  amazed  ejaculations  and 
questions  that  followed  her  all  the  way  to  the 
attic. 

But  when  she  told  her  brother  the  next  day  she  did 
not  call  it  a  pink  tea. 

"I  suppose  you  could  n't  get  together  a  big  enough 
crowd  to  have  a  real  country-style  candy-pulling, 
could  you?  Say  for  next  Wednesday  evening?" 

'Could  n't  I?  Just  try  me  and  see."  (As  if  Sister 
Sue  did  n't  know  that  Gordon  never  passed  any 
sort  of  a  "dare"!) 

"Well,  how  many  could  you  get?" 

"How  many  do  you  want?" 


192  SISTER  SUE 

Sister  Sue  calculated  rapidly.  "Why,  perhaps  six 
boys  and  six  girls." 

"Done!  You  give  us  the  candy  to  pull  and  I'll  see 
that  you  have  the  crowd  here  to  pull  it." 

"Good!  Next  Wednesday  night,  then,  at  eight 
o'clock,"  said  Sister  Sue.  And  to  hear  her  nonchalant 
voice  one  would  never  suspect  that  she  had  spent 
hours  planning  just  how  to  approach  Gordon  with 
the  subject,  and  that  she  was  even  then  quaking  in 
her  shoes  lest  she  had  said  too  much  or  not  enough. 

For  the  next  few  days  Sister  Sue  was  indeed  busy 
arranging  things  around  the  house  and  getting  her 
plans  into  shape  for  Wednesday  night.  May  had 
declared  that  as  for  herself  she  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  any  of  Gordon's  crowd  and  was  surprised 
that  her  sister  allowed  him  to  invite  them.  She  did 
not  propose  to  put  herself  in  a  position  where  she 
would  have  to  speak  to  every  hoodlum  on  the  street  or 
else  pretend  not  to  see  them.  As  it  was,  it  was  humil- 
iating enough  to  have  her  own  brother  speak  to 
them  when  she  was  walking  with  him. 

"What  do  you  suppose  the  Kendalls  will  think 
when  they  see  Joe  Anderson  and  his  sisters  with  their 
beaus  from  the  Whipple  shops  coming  in  here?"  she 
asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Sister  Sue.  "I  have  heard 
that  Joe  Anderson  won  the  hundred-dollar  prize  for 
the  best  set  of  housing  plans  for  the  employees  of  the 
Kendall  shops  and  that  he  had  been  promoted  to 
a  very  responsible  position  in  the  company's  office. 
And  I  heard  that  George  White  had  talked  with  the 


DEPARTING  GUESTS  193 

men  at  the  Whipple  shops  and  persuaded  them  not 
to  go  on  strike  last  week." 

"Yes,  I  know  all  that,"  rejoined  May,  "and  I  know 
also  that  George  White's  brother  Tom  was  found  in 
a  barn  down  on  the  Meadow  Road  dead  drunk  the 
next  day  after  the  big  ball-game  and  the  Kendalls' 
superintendent  discharged  him  as  soon  as  he  heard  of 
it.  Gordon  has  invited  him  here,  and  Gordon  says  he 
has  accepted  the  invitation." 

"I  have  heard  that  story,"  replied  Sister  Sue; 
"Gordon  told  me;  but  Gordon  does  not  believe  that 
Tom  was  intoxicated;  he  thinks  he  had  been  drugged 
and  robbed  at  some  gambling  game." 

"But  are  you  going  to  have  him  here,  now,  in  the 
face  of  the  talk  about  him  all  over  town?  "  asked  May 
in  astonishment. 

"Yes;  I  wrote  a  special  note  to  Tom  and  told  Gor- 
don to  make  him  promise  he  would  surely  come 
Wednesday  night,  that  I  wanted  him  to  sing  and  let 
me  play  his  accompaniments.  You  know  Tom  has  a 
wonderful  tenor  voice,"  quietly  explained  Sister  Sue. 

"Oh,  Sue!  How  could  you?  What  will  Martin  say? 
You  first  neglect  Martin  to  play  Donald  Kendall's 
accompaniments,  and  now,  without  consulting  him, 
you  propose  to  play  accompaniments  for  Tom  White. 
You  must  be  crazy  over  your  old  piano-playing," 
angrily  cried  May. 

But  Sister  Sue  had  no  time  for  argument.  She  still 
had  much  to  do  before  her  work  for  Wednesday  night 
was  finished.  May  could  not  help  now,  because  she 
must  finish  the  manuscripts  for  her  new  story,  which 


194  SISTER  SUE 

Martin  Kent  had  recently  corrected  and  returned  to 
her.  Its  title  was  to  be  "On  the  Mountain-Top," 
and  Martin  had  written  her  it  was  the  best  piece  of 
work  she  had  ever  done  and  any  publisher  would  be 
glad  to  get  hold  of  it,  so  she  told  Sister  Sue  the  day  she 
received  it  back  with  Martin  Kent's  corrections. 

John  Gilmore  seemed  much  more  feeble  these  days 
than  he  had  been,  though  usually  he  had  been  quite 
contented  to  remain  in  his  room  with  his  pictures, 
except  at  times  when  he  would  suddenly  start  out 
bareheaded  and  inform  anybody  he  met  that  he 
needed  a  little  exercise  and  thought  he  would  walk 
downtown  that  day  to  his  office. 

The  pupils  were  farther  advanced  now  and  were 
more  interested  in  their  lessons  and  they  were  not  so 
vexing  and  tedious  as  they  had  been. 

And  so  when  Wednesday  night  came  all  was  ready. 
Sister  Sue  had  taken  out  the  rugs  and  tables  and 
chairs  from  the  big,  wide  hall,  and  had  moved  the 
piano  to  another  corner  in  the  parlor,  making  room 
for  several  more  chairs  and  a  few  small  tables.  The 
evening  was  cool  and  the  air  crisp,  and  Delia  in  the 
kitchen  was  very  happy  with  a  large  kettle  of  boiling, 
bubbling  syrup  on  the  stove,  and  plates  and  spoons 
and  flour  and  butter  on  the  kitchen  table.  Mrs.  Pres- 
ton had  said,  "Delia  is  a  dabster  at  fixing  up  mo- 
lasses for  candy-pulling  and  popcorn  balls,"  and  so  it 
proved. 

Gordon  had  been  true  to  his  word  and  his  "crowd" 
was  all  there.  Three  girls,  Kitty  Sanborn  and  Bessie 
Merrill  and  Grace  Walker,  came  first.  Sister  Sue  wel- 


DEPARTING  GUESTS  195 

corned  them  at  the  door  and  told  them  to  run  upstairs 
and  put  their  wraps  in  her  room.  Then  came  George 
White  with  his  sister  Ruth.  He  told  Sister  Sue  his 
brother  Tom  had  not  been  home  since  the  day  be- 
fore, but  he  thought  he  intended  to  come.  Joe  Ander- 
son came  alone,  but  said  his  sisters  were  on  their  way 
with  their  beaus.  Gordon  had  all  the  boys  go  to  his 
room,  where  they  spent  more  time  than  was  necessary 
in  fixing  their  ties  just  right  and  adjusting  their  cuffs 
so  that  exactly  the  proper  amount  of  white  would 
show.  A  few  minutes  past  eight  Tom  White  came. 
Sister  Sue  had  been  watching  for  him  and  was  at  the 
door  to  meet  him. 

"Good-evening,  Tom,"  she  said. 

"Good-evening,  Miss  Gilmore.  I  am  sorry  I  am 
late,  but  I  had  something  important  —  that  is,  it  was 
important  to  me  —  that  I  wanted  to  get  before  I 
came  here,"  he  said,  "and  I  had  to  go  down  to  the 
Junction  to  get  it.  I  have  it  here,"  and  he  handed  her 
a  folded  piece  of  paper.  "Please  read  it,  Miss  Gil- 
more." 

Sister  Sue  opened  it  and  read: 

mister  Tom  white,  kendalls  Supe  gave  us  the  names  of 
his  men  what  had  dough  in  thare  pockets  we  gave  him  five 
dollars  a  name  we  doped  them  to  get  thare  stuff.  He  told 
us  to  make  you  good  &  sick  &  we  did  i  no  why  he  fired 
you  &  it  was  a  dirty  trick,  if  he  dont  put  you  back  on  your 

job  d quick  he  will  here  things    Show  him  this  leter 

STUBBY 
p  s  Im  the  Supes  bruther 

"I  am  glad,  Tom,  that  what  we  heard  was  not 


196  SISTER  SUE 

true,"  said  Sister  Sue  as  she  handed  the  note  back  to 
him. 

Tom  flushed,  and  said:  "Some  of  it  was  true,  Miss 
Gilmore.  I  did  gamble,  but  I'm  done.  I  shall  ask  the 
superintendent  to  write  me  a  letter  offering  my  old 
job  back  and  saying  he  was  mistaken  in  his  reason  for 
discharging  me,  but  I  shall  not  go  back  there  to  work 
nor  will  I  show  the  letter  to  anybody  unless  neces- 
sary," explained  Tom  as  he  went  upstairs.  Just  then 
Ed  Baker  and  Frank  Woods  came,  with  the  two 
Anderson  girls. 

By  ten  minutes  past  eight  exactly  six  boys  came 
downstairs  in  a  bunch  and  were  vainly  trying  to  ap- 
pear unconcerned  while  exactly  six  girls  in  the  parlor 
immediately  began  to  chatter  and  laugh  as  they  ap- 
peared. Sister  Sue  told  them  she  had  been  lonesome 
ever  since  Old  Home  Week  and  had  wanted  a  little 
party  to  liven  things  up  for  her.  She  told  them  she 
wanted  some  music  and  singing  and  was  very  glad 
they  could  all  come. 

As  she  talked  to  them,  she  sat  at  the  piano  play- 
ing softly  little  alluring  snatches  of  ragtime  and  old 
country-dance  music,  and  she  asked  if  they  supposed 
there  was  room  enough  in  the  hall  for  some  of  them  to 
dance  while  Delia  was  getting  things  ready  out  in  the 
kitchen  for  the  candy-pulling.  She  looked  toward 
Gordon  for  a  reply  and  he  at  once  asked  Kitty  San- 
born  if  she  would  try  it  with  him.  Then  Joe  Anderson 
went  over  to  Ruth  White  (who  was  tapping  her  toe  in 
time  to  the  music)  and  asked  her  if  she  would  start  off 
with  him.  The  music  was  now  changing  into  a  lively 


DEPARTING  GUESTS  197 

little  two-step  and  soon  four  couples  were  forgetting 
their  embarrassment  in  the  witchery  of  the  dance. 

Sister  Sue  turned  to  Tom  White  while  she  was 
playing  and  asked  him  please  to  bring  Grace  Walker 
to  the  piano  so  they  could  talk  and  arrange  for  some 
songs  right  after  giving  the  dancers  a  few  more  turns 
at  the  two-step. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  music  began  to  slow  down. 
The  dancers  clapped  for  more,  but  Sister  Sue  smiled 
and  let  it  drift  into  the  familiar  little  melodies  of 
"Old  Kentucky  Home,"  "In  the  Starlight,"  "Music 
in  the  Air,"  and  at  a  nod  from  her  Tom  and  Grace 
began  to  sing  "Annie  Laurie,"  then  following  it  with 
"  Clementine  "  and  "Jingle  Bells,"  and  soon  the  voices 
of  the  whole  crowd  were  heard  either  joining  in  or 
humming  at  parts  of  the  chorus  until  Delia  appeared 
from  the  kitchen  announcing: 

"If  you  folks  want  to  pull  any  candy,  now's  the 
time.  And  come  quick!" 

With  the  boys'  "Hurrah  for  Delia!"  and,  "You 
bet  we  want  to  pull  candy!"  and  the  girls'  excited 
little  screams  and  shrieks  of  laughter,  they  all  rushed 
into  the  kitchen,  where  Delia  had  two  or  three  well- 
buttered  plates  of  thick  masses  of  soft,  hot  sugar 
ready  for  pulling. 

"Now,  some  of  you  just  get  out  on  that  back 
piazza;  there  ain't  room  enough  for  all  of  you  in  here," 
she  told  them;  "I've  got  to  have  standin'-room  while 
I  learn  some  of  you  how  to  pull  it." 

Then  she  rubbed  flour  over  her  hands  and  took  up 
one  of  the  portions  of  soft,  hot  sugar,  stretching  it  out 


198  SISTER  SUE 

and  folding  it  together  quickly  and  repeating  this  a 
few  times,  occasionally  flouring  or  buttering  her  hands 
lightly  to  prevent  the  sugar's  sticking  to  them. 

"Now,  Joe,  you  an'  Kitty  wash  your  hands  an' 
wipe  'em  dry  an'  rub  them  over  with  flour  an'  take 
this  bunch  I  'm  doin'.  Be  spry  about  it  or  it  '11  git  too 
cold  to  pull,"  ordered  she. 

"An'  you,  Tom  White,  you  an'  Bessie  Merrill  git 
your  hands  fixed  for  this  bunch  an'  go  out  on  the  pi- 
azza with  it.  Stretch  it  way  out,  double  it  over  an' 
give  your  end  to  Bessie,  then  stretch  it  ag'in  an'  make 
Bessie  give  you  her  end.  Stretch  it  so  it  '11  be  kinder 
flat-like.  Keep  a-stretchin'  and  doublin'  it  until  it 
begins  to  git  kinder  hard  to  stretch,  then  pull  one  end 
way  out  'bout  as  far  as  you  can  an'  as  flat  as  you  can, 
lay  it  on  one  of  these  here  buttered  platters  an'  cut  it 
off.  Then  stretch  out  some  more  the  same  way  an' 
cut  that  off.  You  '11  have  to  be  mighty  quick  or  it  '11 
git  hard  an'  won't  stretch. 

"An'  you,  Frank,  if  you've  got  your  hands  washed 
you  may  pop  the  corn;  put  it  in  this  big  pan,  an' 
we'll  have  some  popcorn  balls.  I'll  show  you  how 
to  make  'em  when  you  git  the  pan  filled  up.  Keep 
the  pan  up  there  over  the  stove  so  the  corn  won't  git 
cold." 

Thus  Delia  put  them  to  work,  sending  some  out  on 
the  back  piazza  where,  with  shrieks  and  laughs  and 
"Oh,  my  hands  are  all  sticky!"  and  "It's  hot,  take 
it  quick!"  and  "You  almost  dropped  it!"  they  soon 
had  a  very  creditable  array  of  platters  and  pans  cov- 
ered with  long  strips  ready  to  be  cut  up  into  sticks 


DEPARTING  GUESTS  199 

and  small  pieces  of  real  old-fashioned  molasses  candy. 
Delia  attended  to  cutting  it  up  and  putting  it  on  to 
smaller  plates  and  setting  it  outdoors  to  cool.  In 
the  kitchen  Frank  Woods  and  some  of  the  girls  had 
made  a  panful  of  popcorn  balls  and  these  were  out- 
doors cooling  with  the  candy.  Then  the  boys  helped 
Delia  wash  the  dishes  and  the  girls  wiped  them. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  big  parlor,  Sister  Sue  had  ar- 
ranged the  tables  and  chairs  and  had  brought  in  some 
cake  and  lemonade,  and  was  ready  for  the  young  peo- 
ple, who  now  were  beginning  to  come  in  with  plates 
heaped  with  the  candy  and  popcorn  balls  of  their  own 
make.  Probably  never  before  had  one  of  those  boys 
or  girls  experienced  the  real  fun  and  frolic,  the  jollity 
and  genuine  sport  of  getting  together  and  spending 
an  evening  as  they  were  spending  that  one  at  the  old 
Gilmore  homestead  that  night  in  October. 

While  they  were  eating  and  merry-making  Sister  Sue 
was  lightly  touching  the  keys  of  the  piano,  improvis- 
ing little  tunes  and  weaving  into  them  bits  of  har- 
mony from  Schubert  and  Chopin  and  Liszt  as  she 
followed  the  moods  of  her  guests.  When  they  had 
finished  their  candy  and  cake  and  had  drank  their 
lemonade  and  were  talking  of  going  home,  she  asked 
them  to  give  her  just  one  more  song  and  then  she 
would  let  them  go.  After  that,  somewhat  reluctantly, 
they  went  upstairs  for  their  hats  and  wraps.  The 
boys,  as  they  came  down,  told  Sister  Sue  her  "party" 
was  the  "best  thing  ever,"  and  that  she  was  "all 
right"  and  "we  hope  you  will  have  another  one  soon." 
The  girls  told  her  they  enjoyed  the  dance,  and  candy, 


200  SISTER  SUE 

and  everything,  and  just  wished  they  could  have  her 
to  their  houses  sometime. 

"I  thank  every  one  of  you  so  much  for  coming 
to-night,  and  if  you  will  come  again  I  shall  be  very 
glad.  You've  all  made  me  very  happy  and  I  am  so 
glad  you  have  enjoyed  it,  too,"  said  Sister  Sue  to 
them  as  they  went  down  the  walk. 

"You're  a  brick!  A  regular  brick!"  exclaimed 
Gordon  as  she  closed  the  door,  and  he  emphasized  his 
statement  with  a  hug  —  a  very  unusual  thing  for  him 
to  do.  "I  was  having  a  tough  time  getting  the  fellows 
to  say  they  would  come  here  until  I  told  them  they 
could  dance  and  do  any  old  thing  they  wanted  to. 
They  took  my  word  for  it,  and  now  the  whole  bunch 
wants  to  know  if  you'll  have  'em  here  again." 

"They  may  come  again  just  as  soon  as  you  want 
them  and  as  often  as  they  want  to,"  replied  she. 
"Perhaps  we  can  fix  up  that  large  chamber  over  the 
kitchen  for  a  headquarters  and  you  can  get  up  some 
kind  of  a  club  if  you  want  to." 

"Bully  good  idea! "  exclaimed  Gordon  as  he  started 
upstairs  for  bed.  "Good-night,  Sis." 

"Good-night,  Gordon." 

And  that  night  a  very  tired  but  a  very  happy  little 
girl  went  to  sleep  with  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  heart 
full  of  gladness  because  she  knew  the  "pink  tea"  had 
been  a  success. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  "BEST  SELLER"  AND  A  POSTPONED  MARRIAGE 

"  TRIXIE  "  came  out  the  first  of  November.  It  did  not 
prove  to  be  the  Great  American  Novel,  but  it  did 
become  that  other  will-o'-the-wisp  and  unexplainable 
surprise,  a  "best  seller."  It  was  the  sort  of  a  book 
of  which  one  person,  having  read  it,  immediately  says 
to  his  neighbors  on  both  sides  of  him,  "Have  you  read 
'Trixie'?  Well,  you  want  to,  right  away."  That's 
the  kind  of  book  nothing  can  stop.  The  publisher, 
with  the  feeling  of  an  engineer  catching  on  to  a  train 
that  has  astonished  him  by  starting  off  on  its  own 
accord,  begins  to  advertise  it  widely.  Half  the  critics 
laud  it  to  the  skies,  while  the  other  half  either  ignore 
it  entirely  or  spend  perfectly  good  time  and  perfectly 
good  space,  not  in  reviewing  it,  but  in  heaping  anath- 
emas on  those  who  have  reviewed  it  favorably.  By 
December  it  had  sold  forty  thousand  copies.  Christ- 
mas swelled  it  another  forty  thousand,  and  New  Year's 
saw  it  still  going  strong  with  the  hundred-thousand 
mark  in  sight. 

Martin  Kent  accepted  his  success  gratefully,  even 
modestly  in  a  way,  though  to  his  fiancee  he  did  write 
a  trifle  boastfully:  "What  did  I  tell  you?" 

From  her  and  from  May,  as  from  all  his  friends,  he 
received  hearty  congratulations.  May,  in  particular, 
wrote  him  that  she  was  fairly  green  with  envy.  He 
was  interviewed,  dined,  and  banqueted.  In  maga- 


202  SISTER  SUE 

zincs  and  newspapers  appeared  his  portrait  together 
with  his  quoted  opinion  (occasionally  accurate,  but 
usually  otherwise)  on  all  manner  of  subjects  ranging 
from  the  best  time  to  eat  apples  to  the  worst  habits 
of  the  Fiji  Islanders.  From  all  over  the  country 
came  letters  requesting  autographs  and  locks  of  hair. 
Movie  Men  and  Screen  Bureaus  approached  him  with 
offers;  and  "Trixie"  drinks,  cigars,  pajamas,  and  silk 
stockings  appeared  on  the  market. 

In  February  the  successful  author,  pleased  and 
proud,  but  a  little  dazed  with  it  all,  ran  up  to  Gil- 
moreville  to  see  his  fiancee. 

"I  just  tore  myself  away,"  he  said,  "and  I 've  got  to 
go  back  to-morrow.  I  'm  guest  of  honor  at  a  banquet, 
and  I  have  to  speak  before  a  Woman's  Club  the  next 
day.  But  I  Ve  been  trying  for  so  long  to  get  here." 

In  the  evening,  when  John  Gilmore  had  been  put 
to  bed  and  May  and  Gordon  had  left  the  two  lovers  to 
themselves,  Martin  Kent  told  why  especially  he  had 
come.  He  said  that  surely  now  there  need  be  no  fur- 
ther delay.  He  wanted  to  be  married,  and  he  could 
be  married  now  that  this  blessed  book  had  made  it 
possible. 

He  was  very  tender,  very  affectionate.  He  uttered 
some  very  beautiful  sentiments  that  would  have 
thrilled  any  girl's  heart  and  that  certainly  would 
thrill  the  heart  of  a  very  tired  little  girl  who,  for  so 
long,  had  borne  the  weight  of  heavy,  heavy  burdens. 
And  they  did  thrill  Sister  Sue,  to  whom  all  eyes  had 
turned,  all  hands  had  reached,  and  all  feet  had  run 
when  anything  under  the  sun  was  wanted. 


203 

It  was  with  a  very  long  sigh  of  utter  weariness, 
then,  but  with  a  measure  of  content  as  well,  that 
Sister  Sue  said  yes,  she  would  marry  him.  She  would 
marry  him  in  two  months  —  yes,  in  one  month,  if  he 
liked. 

"Fine!  In  one  month,  then,  please!  My  little 
sweetheart  —  my  wife,"  breathed  the  man  with  a 
fervent  kiss.  "And  down  there  with  me,  once  away 
from  this,  we'll  have  those  roses  back  in  your  cheeks, 
dearie." 

"Away  from  this!"  She  drew  back,  startled. 
"Why  —  Martin,  you  know  I  can't  leave  —  here  — " 

"Nonsense!  Of  course  you  can  leave.  You  did  n't 
think  I  was  coming  Jiere  to  live,  did  you,  sweet- 
heart?" 

"Why,  y-yes,  I  did,  Martin.  I  —  I  thought  that 
was  what  we  'd  always  planned."  Her  eyes  were  trou- 
bled now. 

He  laughed  lightly. 

"But  plans  change,  you  know,  when  circumstances 
change.  Surely,  darling,  you  were  n't  thinking  of 
making  me  spend  the  rest  of  my  days  in  Gilmore- 
ville,  were  you?" 

"You  —  you  would  n't  want  to,  then,  even  for  — 
for  a  time?" 

He  laughed  again  lightly. 

"I'm  afraid  not,  my  dear." 

"But  you  liked  it  —  you  said  you  liked  it,  last 
summer." 

"So  I  did  —  for  a  visit."  He  frowned  a  bit  im- 
patiently. "But  to  live  here  is  quite  another  matter. 


204  SISTER  SUE 

Why,  Sue !  I  'd  stifle  here  —  starve  —  grow  mad !  As 
for  thinking  of  writing  here  —  impossible !  I  'm  sure, 
dear,  you  don't  want  to  quite  spoil  my  career,  now." 

"Oh!  No,  no.  Of  course  not!"  She  spoke  quickly, 
but  her  eyes  were  still  troubled.  "I  was  thinking, 
of  course,  of  Father."  She  paused.  The  man  said 
nothing.  After  a  moment  she  went  on,  more  slowly, 
"I'm  afraid  he  won't  be  so  contented  anywhere  else, 
and  it's  easier  here,  where  he  knows  everybody  and 
everybody  knows  him,  to  take  care  of  him  and  keep 
him  occupied." 

"Of  course,  of  course!  I  would  rCt  think  of  moving 
him,"  said  the  man  in  cordial  agreement. 

The  girl  turned  sharply. 

"  You  —  mean  —  you  don't  mean  for  us  to  go  and 
leave  him  here?"  she  cried  incredulously. 

"But  I  do,  dear."  The  man  spoke  pleasantly,  with 
a  cheerful,  matter-of-course  manner.  "Your  sister 
May  is  here,  and  Gordon,  and  you  have  Delia  in  the 
kitchen.  And  Mrs.  Preston  is  right  in  the  house. 
Your  father  will  be  all  right,  dear.  Don't  worry.  Be- 
sides, you  can  run  up  yourself  to  see  him  now  and 
then." 

She  gave  an  impatient  gesture. 

"Run  up  and  see  him,  indeed!"  she  scorned. 
** Martin,  can't  you  understand?  Can't  you  see  that 
what  you  ask  is  impossible  —  simply  impossible? 
You  don't  know  how  much  he  depends  on  me.  He 
always  did  even  before  he  was  sick  —  they  all  did." 

"Yes,  I  know  they  did,"  interposed  Martin  Kent 
gently. 


A  POSTPONED  MARRIAGE  205 

She  paid  no  attention  to  his  interruption,  but  went 
on  earnestly: 

"He  is  not  quite  so  well  now,  Martin.  He's  more 
restless,  more  confused.  Lots  of  times  he  does  n't 
know  where  he  is,  has  to  be  told,  led  out  of  doors  and 
down  the  street,  and  then  led  back,  just  to  show  him 
he  really  is  at  home,  you  know.  And  I  have  to  do 
that  always.  Delia  can't,  of  course,  and  May  and 
Gordon  can't.  They  have  n't  the  patience.  Why, 
Martin!  I  could  n't  leave  him  with  May.  She 
would  n't  consent,  ever.  Besides,  she  has  her  own 
work  to  do  and  she  loves  it.  I  don't  want  her  life 
spoiled.  I  want  her  to  do  something  worth  while. 
She's  too  young,  anyway,  to  be  left  like  that  with 
all  the  cares. 

"Even  if  it  was  n't  for  Father,  there's  Gordon. 
You  don't  know,  but  Gordon  was  —  was  getting  in 
a  bad  way,  rough  and  coarse  and  out  nights,  and 
hanging  around  hotels  and  pool-rooms.  But  I've 
changed  all  that.  May  says  this  place  is  a  regular 
clubhouse  now  —  and  I  suppose  it  is,  but  I  don't 
care.  We've  fitted  up  a  big  room  upstairs  with 
tables  and  games  and  books  and  magazines  and  an 
old  billiard-table;  and  almost  always  some  of  the 
boys  are  there.  And  we  have  sings  and  candy-pulls 
and  dances  downstairs.  You  should  hear  me  play 
ragtime  and  dance  music!  I  never  thought  I  could, 
but  I  do.  Oh,  I  make  them  hear  good  music,  too,  and 
they're  getting  to  like  it.  We've  started  a  little  or- 
chestra; Gordon  plays  the  bass  viol  —  he  loves  it. 
But  if  I  went  away  all  this  would  stop  and  —  he'd 


206  SISTER  SUE 

go  back,  I  know  he  'd  go  back,  to  those  awful  pool- 
rooms again.  Martin,  don't  you  see?  I  can't  leave 
them  here  —  I  can't.  I  shall  have  to  take  them  with 
me.  Can't  you  see  that  I  shall?" 

"No,  I  can't."  Impatiently  the  man  got  to  his 
feet  and  began  to  move  restlessly  up  and  down  the 
room.  Then  abruptly  he  stopped  and  faced  her. 

"Sweetheart,  can't  you  see  that  that  is  exactly 
what  I  want  —  to  get  you  away  from  it  all?  You  are 
wearing  yourself  all  out.  You've  done  enough.  Let 
some  one  else  take  the  burden  now." 

"Martin!" 

"Yes,  I  know  you  think  I  'm  urging  you  to  do  some- 
thing wrong  and  selfish.  But  it's  not  that  way  at  all. 
They're  selfish  themselves  to  want  you  to  give  up 
your  whole  life  to  them.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  they  depend 
on  you.  They  always  have.  It's  been,  *  Sister  Sue '11 
do  it.'  *  Sister  Sue '11  go.'  *  Sister  Sue '11  stay.'  But 
it's  time  all  that  was  stopped.  It's  time  Sister  Sue 
had  more  chance  to  live  her  own  life." 

She  smiled  a  little  wistfully. 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  sometimes  have  longed  for  a  rest, 
just  a  little  rest  for  a  little  while,  but  some  one  must 
do  these  things.  What  you  say  sounds  all  very  pretty, 
but,  Martin,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  there 
are  some  things  that  have  to  be  done.  I  was  going 
to  live  my  own  life  —  until  that  day  when  Father 
was  brought  home  unconscious.  Everything  changed 
then.  It  had  to  change,  Martin." 

"Yes,  yes.  I  understand,"  admitted  the  man  ir- 
ritably. "But  that  was  then.  Things  are  different 


A  POSTPONED  MARRIAGE  207 

now.  'Trixie '  had  n't  made  a  hit  then.  7  was  n't  in  a 
position  to  do  anything  then.  I  am  now.  I  want  you 
and  I  need  you.  I  need  you  for  incentive,  inspiration. 
Seems  to  me  you  ought  to  consider  me  and  my  needs 
a  little." 

"Oh,  Martin!"    She  smiled  at  him  reproachfully. 

"  Well,  I  do.  I  'm  considering  you.  Seriously,  dear, 
now  listen.  I  want  you  to  get  away,  quite  away,  from 
all  this  care.  And  it  can  be  done  —  if  you  '11  only  be 
sensible  and  reasonable.  If  the  people  here  can't  take 
proper  care  of  your  father,  we  '11  find  a  good  sanita- 
rium somewhere  that  can.  Gordon  will  soon  be  going 
to  college,  and  May  '11  be  getting  married.  Until  then 
they  may  stay  with  us." 

"Thank  you,  Martin."  The  girl's  voice  trembled 
a  little,  though  she  was  speaking  now  very  quietly. 
"But  Father  would  not  be  happy  in  a  sanitarium,  and 
to  be  away  from  me,  too.  Martin,  I  carit  do  that.  I 
shall  have  to  have  him  where  I  can  look  after  him 
myself." 

"But  how  can  you  stand  it,  dear,  to  see  him  like 
that?  So  broken  and  childish  —  not  himself  at  all? 
I  can't.  It  makes  me  positively  ill.  It  unfits  me  for  — 
everything.  I  can't  bear  — " 

"You  won't  have  to,  Martin,"  interrupted  the  girl 
very  quietly,  but  very  pleasantly.  "Come,  we  won't 
talk  any  more  about  it,  please.  It  cannot  do  any 
good;  you  know  we  cannot  possibly  agree.  As  Fa- 
ther is  now  I  can't  marry  you,  for  I  can't  leave  him. 
Now,  let 's  talk  of  something  else  —  your  book,  your 
work,  what  you  are  doing  that 's  new  and  interesting." 


*08  SISTER  SUE 

"But  —  but  —  dearest  — " 

"No  —  please,  Martin.  Don't  let  us  spoil  the 
whole  of  this  one  evening  we  are  together."  Deter- 
minedly and  with  brisk  cheerfulness  she  began  to 
talk  of  "Trixie"  and  the  curious  letters  that  had 
come  to  him  from  all  over  the  country. 

When  he  had  gone  an  hour  later,  she  still  carried 
the  same  air  of  brisk  cheerfulness  upstairs  to  her 
room.  She  even  hummed  a  meaningless  little  tune, 
just  such  a  little  tune  as  one  would  hum  if  one  was 
trying  very  hard  not  —  to  —  think. 


CHAPTER  XV 

REVELATIONS 

FEBRUARY  passed  and  March  came.  "Trixie"  had 
reached  the  hundred-thousand  mark  now  —  and  was 
still  selling,  so  Martin  Kent  wrote.  Martin  Kent's 
letters  to  his  fiancee  were  still  frequent,  still  affec- 
tionate, still  brightly  full  of  his  doings  and  of  the 
honors  being  showered  upon  him.  He  was  tenderly 
solicitous  of  her  health  and  welfare  —  but  he  said 
nothing  whatever  about  being  married. 

Sister  Sue's  letters  in  return  were  also  frequent, 
affectionate,  and  frequently  full  of  the  doings  and 
sayings  in  the  Gilmore  household  —  but  they  also 
said  nothing  whatever  about  marriage.  The  subject 
was  tacitly  tabooed. 

In  Gilmoreville  Sister  Sue  pursued  her  daily  round 
with  at  least  a  semblance  of  serenity  and  good  cheer. 
In  reality  she  was  still  humming  that  meaningless 
little  tune  of  —  the  woman  who  does  not  want  to 
think.  She  was  so  busy,  however,  through  the  day 
that  she  had  little  time  to  think,  and  she  was  so  tired 
when  it  came  night  that  her  insistent  counting  of 
sheep  jumping  over  a  wall  usually  brought  the  de- 
sired sleep. 

And  Sister  Sue  was,  indeed,  busy.  The  number  of 
her  pupils  had  increased,  and  she  was  teaching  in  the 
Gilmoreville  Graded  School,  as  well  as  in  the  school 
at  the  Junction  —  ten  miles  away.  In  a  rash  moment 
of  sympathy  for  a  much-harassed  minister,  she  had 


210  SISTER  SUE 

taken  upon  herself  the  playing  of  the  piano  for  the 
Sunday-School.  The  rehearsals  of  her  home-talent 
orchestra  made  still  more  demands  on  her  time,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  increasing  popularity  of  her  sings  and 
candy-pulls.  Even  May  had  to  be  counted  in  for  no 
small  share  of  attention,  for  May  was  already  trying 
to  sell  her  stories,  and  when  they  came  back,  flanked 
with  their  cruel  rejection  slips,  there  was  no  one 
quite  like  Sister  Sue  to  soothe  her,  and  give  her  com- 
fort and  sympathy  and  to  put  those  undiscerning 
editors  where  they  belonged  with  a  few  well-chosen 
words  of  sharp,  stinging  rebuke  which  May  only 
wished  they  could  have  heard. 

And  above  all  else,  always  there  was  for  Sister  Sue 
the  childish  old  man,  who  was  growing  day  by  day 
more  exacting. 

Indeed,  there  was  no  doubt  that  Sister  Sue  was 
busy  that  winter  in  Gilmoreville.  She  told  Mrs. 
Preston  sometimes  that  she  was  very,  very  busy 
peeling  those  potatoes;  that  she  would  n't  mind  her 
backaches  and  headaches  if  she  were  only  doing  some- 
thing really  worth  while.  But  to  be  so  utterly  weary 
and  then  have  nothing  to  show  for  it  but  a  pan  of 
peeled  potatoes  —  !  And  then  she  would  make  up 
a  wry  little  face  and  shrug  her  shoulders  and,  with 
a  merry  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  glance  over  to  Mrs. 
Preston,  who  would  always  remark:  "I'ma-thinkin' 
more  folks  is  needin'  potatoes  ter-day  than  turkey." 
Then  both  of  them  would  laugh. 

But  it  all  helped  and  made  it  easier  to  go  back  to 
the  potato-peeling. 


REVELATIONS 

In  June  Gordon  was  graduated  from  the  High 
School.  He  was  valedictorian  of  his  class.  His  sister 
was  proud  of  him  and  told  him  so.  He  was  eighteen 
years  old  that  spring.  He  had  told  Sister  Sue  that  he 
had  carefully  considered  the  matter  from  all  sides 
and  had  decided  not  to  go  to  college.  He  was  going 
into  business,  he  said.  And  he  said  it  with  a  very 
brave  show  of  meaning  it,  too,  but  she  was  not  so 
easily  deceived  by  his  words.  She  detected  the  "Oh, 
I  wish  I  could  go"  under  his  effort  to  appear  indif- 
ferent. 

So  Sister  Sue  laughed  and  said  "Nonsense!"  That 
he  was  going  to  do  no  such  thing;  that  she  could  ar- 
range beautifully  now  to  send  him,  she  was  sure,  if  he 
would  n't  mind  being  a  little  economical  and  did  n't 
choose  too  expensive  a  college  and  would  perhaps 
help  a  little  himself. 

And  Gordon  kissed  her  (a  quite  extraordinary  trib- 
ute for  him  to  pay)  and  said  she  was  a  peach,  and  a 
brick,  and  he'd  wanted  to  go  all  the  time,  only  he 
did  n't  want  to  be  a  selfish  pig  about  it.  And  of 
course  he'd  help  pay  his  way.  He'd  black  boots,  or 
wait  on  tables,  or  shovel  paths,  or  anything  —  She  'd 
see !  He  said  he  could  begin  this  summer  to  earn  some 
money,  but,  in  thinking  it  over,  he  did  n't  believe  he 
would  after  all.  Better  start  fresh  in  the  fall.  Besides, 
he  had  another  chance  to  go  camping  this  summer 
where  he  had  such  a  good  time  last  year,  and  he  knew 
Sister  Sue  would  want  him  to  do  that.  And  Sister 
Sue  said,  "Yes,  yes,  indeed!  Of  course!" 

And  so  on  the  first  of  July  he  went. 


212  SISTER  SUE 

Martin  Kent  came  the  sixth.  All  the  spring  he  had 
been  writing  his  fiancee  that  he  was  coming  to  Gil- 
moreville  for  a  vacation.  He  said  it  was  just  the 
place  he  needed,  and  he  was  really  looking  forward  to 
the  quiet  of  the  old  town  with  its  quaint,  comfortable 
Inn.  To  say  nothing  of  his  longing  to  see  her  —  his 
dear  sweetheart. 

He  arrived  at  five  o'clock,  and  at  eight  o'clock  he 
walked  down  the  long,  elm-shaded  street  leading  to 
the  big,  white  colonial  house  known  as  the  old  Gil- 
more  homestead.  Sister  Sue  was  first  to  see  him 
coming.  She  was- sitting  on  the  veranda  with  May 
and  her  father.  She  gave  one  comprehensive  look  at 
the  tall  figure  exhibiting  so  unmistakably  the  handi- 
work of  a  city  tailor,  even  at  that  distance,  then  she 
hurriedly  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Come,  Father.  It's  time  we  were  going  in,  I 
think."  And  she  took  firm  hold  of  his  arm. 

"Oh,  no.  I  don't  want  to  go  in,"  he  said  gently, 
but  decidedly. 

"But  we'll  have  to.  Come,  Father,  come!"  she 
cried.  "Please  come,  quick!"  And  so  urgent  was  her 
voice  this  time  that  it  penetrated  even  the  befogged 
brain  of  the  mumbling  old  man,  and  he  rose  as  if  im- 
pelled by  some  hidden  force.  They  were  well  out  of 
sight,  indoors,  by  the  time  the  tall,  well-groomed 
figure  of  the  man  came  up  the  walk. 

It  seemed  to  Sister  Sue,  afterwards,  that  this  little 
incident  was  portentous  of  all  the  experiences  that 
followed  during  the  next  few  wreeks.  As  the  days 
passed,  always  she  was  luring  her  father  into  the 


REVELATIONS  213 

house,  or  upstairs,  or  out  of  doors,  somewhere,  any- 
where, so  that  he  might  not  offend  the  eyes  of  Martin 
Kent  with  his  undesired  presence.  (All  day  Sister 
Sue  might  hum  those  meaningless  little  tunes  so  that 
she  might  not  think  —  think  —  think;  yet  she  al- 
ways was  remembering  what  Martin  Kent  had  said 
about  seeing  her  father.  She  did  not  have  to  think  to 
remember  that!) 

Sometimes  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  task  of  keeping 
her  father  and  Martin  Kent  apart  was  an  impossible 
one.  For  a  considerable  time  now  John  Gilmore  had 
been  showing  himself  more  and  more  averse  to  being 
left  alone.  He  wanted  always  to  be  with  somebody.  If 
left  alone  in  his  own  room,  it  would  n't  be  long  before 
he  would  be  seeking  Sister  Sue  or  May  or  Gordon,  or 
even  Delia  in  the  kitchen.  Only  in  his  flower  garden 
was  he  content  to  be  by  himself.  And  it  was  there, 
whenever  possible,  that  his  daughter  would  lead  him 
at  sight  of  Martin  Kent  coming  down  the  street  or  up 
the  walk.  Fortunately,  however,  night  found  the  old 
man  very  tired  and  he  was  always  ready  to  go  to  bed 
early.  For  Sister  Sue  it  left  the  evenings  free  from 
her  ever-present  fear  that  her  father  would  walk  into 
the  room  to  show  his  box  of  paper  pictures  or  to  ask  if 
she  would  n't  please  take  him  home,  saying  that  he 
wanted  to  go  home  soon.  The  latter  meant  always 
that,  if  he  was  to  be  made  happy,  the  two  of  them 
must  put  on  their  hats  (and  coats  if  necessary)  and 
walk  up  or  down  the  street  and  across  to  the  other 
side,  coming  back  again  to  their  own  doorway,  which 
never  failed  then  to  elicit  a  contented  "Oh,  I'm  so 


214  SISTER  SUE 

glad  to  get  home,"  from  the  weary  man  at  Sister 
Sue's  side. 

But  it  was  this,  all  this,  that  Sister  Sue  did  not  want 
to  happen  in  Martin  Kent's  presence.  Hence  her 
ceaseless  endeavors  to  have  her  father  well  out  of  the 
way  and  happily  occupied  when  her  lover  was  in  the 
house. 

Not  that  Martin  Kent  himself  said  anything  to 
make  this  necessary.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  always 
very  pleasant,  even  gently  cordial  when,  in  spite  of 
Sister  Sue's  vigilance,  he  and  John  Gilmore  sometimes 
met.  He  often  inquired,  too,  very  solicitously,  for 
his  health.  But  Martin  Kent  was  very  affable,  very 
gracious,  in  all  his  ways  these  days.  He  was  all  ten- 
derness and  sympathy  for  Sister  Sue  when  he  found 
her  so  tired  in  the  evenings,  and  he  was  tireless  in  his 
efforts  to  help  May  in  her  short-story  writing.  May 
told  Sister  Sue  he  was  perfectly  lovely,  and  not 
spoiled  a  bit  by  all  his  wonderful  success,  and  he  was 
such  a  help  to  her!  And  Sister  Sue  smiled  and  said 
she  was  glad,  very  glad. 

And  Sister  Sue  really  was  glad.  She  was  glad  not 
only  to  have  May  so  aided  in  her  work,  but  she  was 
glad  that  there  was  some  one  in  the  house  who  could 
help  entertain  Martin  Kent  and  make  up  for  her  own 
delinquencies  as  a  hostess.  For  with  her  father  and  her 
pupils  Sister  Sue  was  finding  very  little  time  to  give 
to  Martin  Kent  except  the  evenings.  And  Martin 
Kent  was  often  there  through  the  day.  He  liked  the 
cozy,  vine-shaded  veranda,  and  he  liked  to  help  May 
all  he  could,  he  said.  Besides,  there  was  a  chance, 


REVELATIONS  215 

once  in  a  while,  that  he  might  occasionally  catch  a 
peep  at  Sister  Sue !  he  declared.  So  almost  every  day 
he  came  to  sit  on  the  vine-shaded  veranda  with  May. 
Not  that  he  always  sat  there.  Quite  frequently  he 
suggested  a  walk.  He  said  it  was  cooler  up  on  the  hill 
in  the  pine  grove  back  of  the  house,  and  they  could 
work  up  there  better.  That  there  was  not  the  same 
chance  up  there  of  "catching  a  peep"  at  Sister  Sue 
evidently  did  not  occur  to  him. 

But  it  did  occur  to  Sister  Sue.  She  was  ashamed  to 
admit  it,  even  to  herself.  But  a  great  many  things 
were  occurring  to  Sister  Sue  these  days,  instigated,  she 
very  well  knew,  by  the  chance  sentences  that  had 
come  to  her  ears  one  recent  Sunday  when  she  was  on 
the  way  out  of  Sunday-School  where  she  had  been 
playing  the  piano  for  the  singing.  In  front  of  her 
were  two  slow-moving  teachers,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  slacken  her  own  eager  steps  for  a  moment.  And 
it  was  at  that  moment  that  the  sentence  floated 
back  to  her. 

"It  was  Sister  Sue — yes  —  that  played —  And 
he 's  engaged  to  her  —  but  everybody  says  they 
should  think  't  was  the  other  one  —  the  way  they  're 
gallivanting  off  together  all  the  time." 

Unseen,  Sister  Sue  slipped  to  one  side  through  the 
crowd  and  waited  until  the  two  women  were  quite  out 
of  sight.  Then  she  came  down  the  steps  and  walked 
home  —  a  little  hurriedly  and  her  cheeks  pinker  than 
usual. 

Silly  gossip,  of  course.  But  what  a  pity !  Must  she 
forbid  their  going  out  at  all  together  without  a  chap- 


216  SISTER  SUE 

eron?  She  had  never  thought  it  necessary  before  to 
have  a  chaperon  in  this  little  country  town,  their  own 
home  town  as  well.  And  Martin  Kent,  the  child's 
future  brother-in-law,  too!  What  a  shame  that  idle 
tongues  should  try  to  make  capital  out  of  a  simple 
daylight  walk  to  the  little  pine  grove  on  the  hill  back 
of  their  own  home!  And,  too,  when  they  obviously 
went  with  books  in  their  hands  to  study  there;  and 
very  plainly  in  an  effort  to  get  away  from  the  tiresome 
thumping  of  her  pupils  at  those  eternal  scales  and 
five-finger  exercises !  How  absurd !  How  wicked,  too ! 
Gossip  like  that  always  hurt  a  girl !  It  was  a  shame ! 
But  to  stop  it;  that  was  the  problem.  To  say  in  so 
many  words,  you  must  not  talk  nor  walk  together  any 
more.  Oh,  she  could  not  do  that!  She  never  could! 
Why,  it  would  look  as  if  she  distrusted  them  and  was 
cheaply  jealous  of  her  own  sister!  And  if  she  ex- 
plained, told  them  about  the  gossip,  that  would  be 
worse.  It  would  make  them  self-conscious  and  — 
and  impossible  to  be  together.  It  would  entirely  spoil 
their  frank  comradeship,  and  of  course  put  a  stop  to 
the  "lessons"  with  all  their  wonderful  aid  and  en- 
couragement to  May.  And  what  a  pity  to  do  all  that 
just  because  of  a  silly  bit  of  gossip! 

Of  course,  if  there  were  any  truth  in  it  — 
And  just  here  it  came  to  her  with  almost  blinding 
force  —  What  if  it  were  true  ?  What  if  they  had  begun 
to  care  for  each  other?  What  if  —  But  that  was  ab- 
surd, of  course.  She  would  not  so  misjudge  them. 
Certainly  she  could  drive  such  unworthy  thoughts 
from  her  mind. 


REVELATIONS  217 

But  this  was  just  what  she  found  she  could  not  do. 
In  spite  of  her  determination  and  her  scornful  denials 
to  herself,  she  found  herself  watching,  always  watch- 
ing, whenever  she  saw  them  together.  She  found  her- 
self inventing  excuses  to  go  out  on  the  veranda  when 
her  sister  and  Martin  Kent  were  there,  and  she  found 
herself  knowing  the  minute  they  left  the  house  for  a 
walk  to  the  pine  grove  on  the  hill,  and  watching  the 
clock  till  they  returned. 

And  she  saw: 

That  Martin  Kent's  eyes  lighted  up  when  May 
came  into  the  room,  and  that  they  followed  her  as  she 
moved  about;  that  he  deferred  to  May's  wishes  and 
whims  and  opinions  on  all  occasions;  that  he  worried 
as  to  whether  May  was  too  warm  or  too  cold,  when 
it  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  his  fiancee  might 
need  a  fan  or  an  extra  wrap;  and  that  he  and  May 
had  many  little  jokes  and  laughs  together  in  which 
she  herself  had  no  part. 

Not  that  any  of  these  things  of  themselves  were  so 
very  great,  she  told  herself,  but  they  were  significant, 
and  she  admitted  that.  She  began  to  admit  some- 
thing else,  too.  Would  it,  after  all,  be  so  very  strange 
if  Martin  Kent  did  turn  to  her  sister  May?  May  was 
young,  pretty,  and  very  attractive.  May  had  no 
cares.  She  was  free  to  be  with  him  whenever  he 
wanted  her.  Moreover,  there  was  the  great  bond  of 
their  common  literary  interests.  They  could  spend 
hours  talking  plots,  local  color,  and  atmosphere. 
While  as  for  herself  — ! 

Sister  Sue  studied  herself  in  the  mirror  one  day. 


218  SISTER  SUE 

She  flung  the  shade  far  up  and  let  the  sunlight  in,  and 
she  was  shocked.  Undeniably  she  was  looking  old 
and  careworn.  She  had  grown  thinner  since  coming 
to  Gilmoreville,  and  the  little  hollows  in  her  cheeks 
and  the  dark  circles  under  her  eyes  were  not  becom- 
ing. Her  hair  showed  lack  of  care,  and  not  the  sim- 
plicity of  taste  in  arrangement,  but  the  simplicity  of 
haste  —  which  is  quite  different  in  effect.  Her  dress, 
too,  was  plainly  selected  for  its  durability  and  not  for 
its  attractiveness.  She  remembered  that  she  did  n't 
have  leisure  to  give  Martin  Kent  whenever  he  saun- 
tered over  in  search  of  companionship  and  amuse- 
ment. The  house  —  her  father  —  a  pupil,  always 
there  was  something  to  detain  her.  And  when  evening 
came  she  was  so  utterly  worn  out  with  it  all  that  very 
likely  she  was  stupid  and  unattractive.  Moreover, 
she  did  not  have  that  "community  of  interest"  with 
Martin.  Plots,  local  color,  atmosphere,  bored  her 
only  to  a  degree  less,  perhaps,  than  her  music  bored 
him.  He  had  never  cared  much  for  music.  It  might 
not,  then,  be  so  very  strange,  after  all,  if  Martin 
Kent  should  turn  to  her  sister  May. 

Prepared,  however,  as  Sister  Sue  was  for  the  thing, 
it  came  to  her  as  a  distinct  shock  when  she  came  into 
the  living-room  late  one  afternoon  and  found  May  in 
Martin  Kent's  arms.  With  a  little  cry  from  May 
they  sprang  apart.  Then  May  stood  looking  from 
one  to  the  other,  biting  her  lips  and  twisting  her  fin- 
gers nervously.  The  man's  face  had  grown  first  color- 
less, then  a  dark,  painful  red.  With  a  very  obvious 
effort  he  began  to  speak,  his  eyes  on  the  girl  in  the 


REVELATIONS  219 

doorway  who  had  stopped  short  and  was  standing 
there  now  quietly,  her  face  a  little  white. 

"There  is  n't  anything  —  I  —  I  can't,  Sister  Sue" 
implored  the  man. 

Sister  Sue  stirred  suddenly.  It  was  as  if  the  familiar 
appeal  of  "Sister  Sue"  had  cleared  away  a  fog  of 
indecision.  She  came  forward  at  once,  at  the  same 
time  slipping  a  ring  from  the  third  finger  of  her  left 
hand.  Very  faintly  she  smiled. 

"No,  there  is  nothing  you  can  say,  Martin,  except 
what  you  have  said.  It  is  —  'Sister  Sue.'"  She 
dropped  the  ring  on  to  the  table  by  which  he  stood, 
then  turned  and  left  the  room  swiftly. 

That  evening,  on  the  veranda,  when  it  was  so  dark 
one's  face  could  not  be  plainly  seen,  May  came  to 
her  and  dropped  on  a  low  stool  at  her  feet. 

"Sue,  won't  you  just  let  me  —  talk  to  you?"  she 
faltered. 

"Why,  certainly.  Talk  all  you  like."  Sister  Sue's 
voice  was  calmly  expressionless. 

"I  know  there  is  n't  anything  I  can  say  —  not  any- 
thing," choked  the  girl,  "that  will  do  —  do  any  real 
good,  or  take  away  the  —  the  awf  illness  of  the  thing. 
But  I  —  I  want  you  to  know  that  —  that  —  what 
you  saw  to-day  —  never  happened  before.  It  —  it 
was  the  first  time  —  and  we  —  we  were  —  were  just 
as  much  surprised  as  you  were." 

"Were  you!" 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know!"  exclaimed  May  feverishly. 
"Nothing  I  can  say  will  seem  to  do  any  good,  when 
you  saw  with  your  own  eyes.  But,  Sister  Sue,  listen. 


220  SISTER  SUE 

Thoughtless,  and  silly,  and  selfish,  and  everything  else 
that  I  am  that's  bad  and  foolish,  I  don't  lie.  You 
know  I  don't  lie.  You  do  know  that?" 

"Yes.  I  know  that,  May." 

"Well;  then  you  must  believe  me  when  I  say  that 
that  was  the  first  time  —  what  you  saw  —  and  that 
we  never  realized  where  we  were  drifting,  until  — 
until  it  was  right  on  us,  or  that  we  cared  —  that  way. 
And  I  want  you  to  know  that  we  're  going  to  kill  it  — 
both  of  us.  I'm  going  away." 

"Nonsense,  child!  You'll  do  no  such  thing!  As  if 
I 'diet  you!" 

"But,  Sister  Sue,  we're  in  earnest,  really.  We're 
not  going  to  meet  again  for  a  long,  long  time.  Martin 
is  going  to  write  to  you  and  —  and  explain  —  and  ask 
you  to  forgive  and  forget  and  take  back  the  ring. 
And  he's  going  to  bow  in  the  dust.  He  said  he 
was." 

Sister  Sue  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"And  does  he  think  I  want  a  lover  —  that  he  picks 
out  of  the  dust?  No,  May.  All  that  is  impossible, 
quite  impossible.  You'll  see  it  yourself  after  a  little 
thought.  Do  you  think  for  an  instant  that  I  would 
want  to  marry  a  man  who  cared  for  another  woman, 
and  that  woman  my  sister  who  cared  for  him,  too? 
Don't  be  absurd,  May!" 

"But  we're  so  sorry!  so  heartbroken!" 

"You  shouldn't  be.  You  should  be  glad  that 
you've  found  it  out  before  it's  too  late.  I  am." 

"Are  you,  really?" 

"Very  glad.  It  would  have  been  unfortunate,  you 


REVELATIONS 

know,  if  you  had  found  it  out  after  he  had  married 
me." 

"But  it  looks  —  as  if  we'd  been  so  false  — 
quivered  May.  "And,  truly,  Sister  Sue,  we  never 
thought  —  we  never  dreamed  —  of  such  a  thing," 
she  hurried  on  feverishly.  "And  it  was  over  such  a 
silly  little  thing  that  we  —  we  found  out.  I  got  a 
splinter  in  my  finger  out  on  the  board  fence  when 
reaching  through  for  nasturtiums,  and  when  I  came 
in  I  found  Martin  here,  and  I  asked  him  to  get  it  out, 
and  he  did,  and  —  and  —  Honestly,  Sister  Sue,  I 
don't  know  how  it  happened,  but  all  of  a  sudden  he 
had  me  in  his  arms  and  —  and  was  kissing  me  and  — 
and  saying  things.  Then  —  you  came.  Oh !  Sister 
Sue,  it  was  awful !  What  did  you  think?  And  we  were 
just  as  surprised  as  you  were.  But  I  know  now  that  it 
—  it's  been  coming  on  a  long  time  with  me.  I  always 
liked  him,  and  thought  he  was  perfectly  lovely.  Then 
when  he  began  to  help  me,  and  we  had  such  a  lot  of 
things  to  talk  about  —  I  know  now  that  I  was  always 
watching  for  him,  and  that  I  was  never  so  happy  as 
when  with  him,  and  he  says  it's  been  the  same  way 
with  him,  too.  He  found  himself  watching  for  me 
and  waiting  for  me,  and  glad  when  we  could  be  off 
by  ourselves.  He  told  me  that  to-day  —  after  you  — 
you  went  away.  But  right  off  —  we  —  we  agreed 
that  we  'd  kill  it,  and  we  will,  Sister  Sue,  because  I  'm 
sure  we  can !  Oh !  We  're  going  to  try  so  hard  and  - — ' 

"Nonsense!"  interrupted  Sister  Sue,  rousing  her- 
self briskly.  "Don't  talk  that  way  any  more,  May. 
When  I  dropped  that  ring  on  the  table  I  dropped 


222  SISTER  SUE 

myself  quite  out  of  Martin  Kent's  life  —  except,  of 
course,  as  'Sister  Sue,'"  she  amended  with  a  slight 
lift  of  the  eyebrows.  "Now,  come.  We  know  what  is 
to  be  done.  The  only  thing  left  is  to  decide  how  and 
when  to  do  it.  You  will  be  married,  of  course.  The 
sooner,  the  better,  I  think,  under  the  circumstances, 
which  will  suit  Martin  Kent,  I  am  sure.  He  wanted  to 
marry  me  last  March,  so  he'll  be  ready;  merely  a 
change  in  brides,  that's  all." 

"  Sister  Sue !  You  —  you  're  awful ! " 

"Awful?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  hope  I'm  sensible. 
That's  all." 

"But  —  but  Martin  is  going  to  write  you." 

"Very  well.  I'll  answer.  And  he'll  like  my  letter. 
Never  fear.  This  is  n't  a  penny  dreadful  or  a  stage 
melodrama  that  we  're  living,  you  know.  There  '11  be 
no  hysterics  or  heroics.  We  shall  conduct  the  matter 
with  dignity  and  with  as  little  cause  for  gossip  as  is 
possible.  You  will  go  away  to  live,  of  course.  I'm 
glad  of  that.  It  would  n't  be  so  easy  to  keep  tongues 
quiet  if  you  were  here  as  a  perpetual  reminder." 

"But  —  Sister  Sue.   You?"  faltered  May. 

"Don't  worry  about  me."  Sister  Sue's  lips  came 
together  a  bit  grimly.  "As  I  told  you,  there'll  be  no 
hysterics  or  heroics,  and  I  shan't  die  of  a  broken  heart. 
Never  fear." 

"Sister  Sue,  I  —  I  think  you're  wonderful!" 
breathed  the  younger  girl. 

"Wonderful?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  I  — I'm  just  Sister 
Sue,  that 'sail." 

"Sue,  Sue,  Sister  Sue  —  are  you  out  here?"  queried 


REVELATIONS  223 

a  man's  voice  from  the  doorway.    Even  her  father 
called  her  "Sister  Sue"  sometimes. 

"Yes,  Father.  I'm  coming."  With  a  sigh  that  was 
quickly  stifled,  Sister  Sue  got  to  her  feet  and  went 
into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SOME  READJUSTMENTS 

GRIMLY  Sister  Sue  faced  the  thing.  Calmly  she 
thrashed  it  out  in  her  mind.  There  would,  indeed,  be 
no  hysterics  or  heroics.  She  was  not  that  kind.  She 
thanked  Heaven  for  that.  Besides,  when  one  comes 
right  down  to  it,  the  thing  —  what  she  was  doing  — 
was  not  so  different  from  what  she  had  been  doing  all 
her  life.  She  was  merely  substituting  a  lover  for  the 
larger  apple  or  the  bigger  piece  of  cake,  and  letting 
little  sister  have  it.  That  was  all.  Surely,  she  ought 
to  be  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  by  this  time! 

To  be  sure,  it  was  not  exactly  soothing  to  one's 
pride  to  be  thus  so  lightly  tossed  aside  for  a  younger, 
fairer  face!  There  would  be  a  slight  period  of  rather 
painful  readjustment.  There  was  bound  to  be  that. 

Women,  like  the  two  gossips  coming  out  of  Sunday- 
School  that  day,  would  love  to  roll  the  thing  over 
their  tongues  and  nod  "I  told  you  so"  to  each  other. 
She  must  expect  that.  Other  people,  their  own  friends 
and  acquaintances,  might  stare  and  marvel  a  little  at 
the  metamorphosis  in  the  bride.  That,  also,  was  to 
be  expected.  But  at  the  worst  it  would  be  but  a  nine 
days'  wonder,  soon  over.  Then  some  other  matter 
somewhere  would  claim  their  attention. 

As  for  her  own  feelings  in  the  matter  —  Sister  Sue 
was  experiencing  the  realization  of  a  curious  phenom- 
enon; where  before,  ever  since  her  talk  with  Martin 


SOME  READJUSTMENTS  225 

Kent  in  February  about  leaving  her  father,  she  had 
been  trying  hard  not  to  think,  think,  THINK,  of  Mar- 
tin Kent,  she  was  now  conscious  of  no  such  effort 
on  her  part.  She  was  quite  willing  to  think  of  him. 
He  seemed  already  a  being  quite  apart  from  her  life. 
She  was  amazed,  and  a  little  troubled,  that  she  could 
think  of  him  in  that  way  so  calmly  —  so  almost  in- 
differently. Was  she,  then,  so  cold-hearted,  so  fickle- 
minded?  Surely,  when  one's  lover  failed  one  so 
utterly  as  to  — 

Like  a  flash  in  the  dark  there  came  the  explanation 
why  she,  ever  since  February,  had  been  mentally 
humming  the  meaningless  little  tunes  so  as  not  to 
think,  think,  THINK  of  Martin  Kent,  and  why  now 
she  could  think  of  him  so  calmly,  so  indifferently. 

It  was  not  now  that  her  lover  had  failed  her. 
(A  thing  that  was  already  black  could  not  become 
blacker.)  She  knew  now  that  it  was  in  February  that 
he  had  really  failed  her;*in  February  when  he  had 
pleaded  for  an  immediate  marriage,  peremptorily 
suggesting  a  sanitarium  for  her  father,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  unmistakably  indicating  his  own  ab- 
horrence of  the  presence  so  dear  to  her.  She  knew 
now  why  something  had  seemed  to  snap  within  her 
at  that  time.  She  knew  now  why  she  had  then  grown 
so  numb  and  cold,  and  why  from  that  moment  she 
had  always  unconsciously  been  putting  the  thought 
of  Martin  Kent  as  far  from  her  as  possible.  She 
knew  now  why,  when  she  saw  his  arms  about  her  sis- 
ter, there  was  n't  the  sharp  stab  of  a  new  hurt,  but 
the  dull  ache  of  an  old  one.  For  that  matter,  as  she 


226  SISTER  SUE 

looked  back  at  it,  she  could  now  see  that  from  the 
very  day  of  the  catastrophe  that  had  brought  such 
changes  into  her  life  Martin  Kent  had  continuously 
been  found  wanting  when  put  to  the  test  of  real  aid 
and  comfort.  She  knew  that  always  in  her  own 
mind  she  had  been  finding  excuses  for  him,  always 
she  had  been  either  telling  herself  that  it  was  "just 
Martin's  way,"  or  she  had  been  trying  to  put  some 
word  or  action  of  his  quite  out  of  her  thoughts.  As 
she  looked  back  at  it,  there  had,  for  a  long  time, 
been  this  growing  sense  of  hurt  and  disappointment 
which  had  now  culminated  in  a  thing  that  precluded 
excuse  and  that  most  certainly  could  not  be  dis- 
missed with  a  placating  "Oh,  that's  just  Martin's 
way."  She  still  felt,  however,  that  it  was  not  now 
that  she  had  lost  her  lover,  but  months  ago  on  that 
day  in  February,  just  as  she  felt  that  no  matter  when 
her  father  should  die  she  had  really  lost  him  on  the 
day  he  was  brought  home  unconscious  from  the  office. 

As  for  May  —  Martin  Kent  would  very  likely 
make  May  happy.  Certainly  she  hoped  he  would. 
They  would  at  least  have  the  same  interests,  and  May 
had  no  household  cares  or  filial  duties  to  prevent  his 
taking  her  where  he  liked. 

There  remained,  then,  only  the  readjustment  of 
matters  so  as  to  make  as  little  commotion  and  talk  as 
possible  in  Gilmoreville. 

In  the  morning  came  Martin  Kent's  note  by  special 
messenger.  It  was  a  beautiful  note.  Not  for  nothing 
was  Martin  Kent  a  fiction  writer.  He  did,  as  May 
had  predicted,  bow  himself  to  the  dust.  He  did  not 


SOME  READJUSTMENTS  227 

attempt  to  offer  explanations  or  excuses.  He  declared 
that  he  could  n't  do  that.  It  would  be  useless.  But 
he  was  all  contrition,  all  shame  in  his  supplication  for 
mercy  and  forgiveness.  And  in  the  end  he  begged, 
would  she  not  take  back  his  ring  and  wear  it? 

Sister  Sue  answered  immediately.  Her  note  was  not 
beautiful.  It  contained  no  heroics  and  no  thrills. 
Sister  Sue  was  not  a  fiction  writer.  It  contained  no 
bemoanings,  no  reproaches.  It  was  cheerful,  matter 
of  fact,  and  cordially  interested  in  plans  for  his  and 
May's  happiness.  It  said,  no,  thank  you,  she  did  not 
care  to  wear  the  ring  again,  and  she  was  very  glad 
the  true  state  of  affairs  had  been  found  out  before  it 
was  too  late.  It  said,  also,  that  there  was  no  reason 
why  he  and  May  should  not  be  married  as  soon  as 
May's  simple  trousseau  could  be  made  ready,  and 
that  he  need  feel  no  hesitation  in  coming  to  the  house 
with  the  old  freedom  and  informality,  and  that  she 
really  hoped  he  would  come  soon. 

And  she  signed  herself,  "Sister  Sue." 

And  Sister  Sue  did  hope  he  would  come  soon.  She 
longed  to  get  over  the  awkwardness  of  that  first  meet- 
ing. After  that  it  would  be  easier,  she  knew. 

She  was  glad,  therefore,  when  two  days  later  Delia 
told  her  that  Mr.  Kent  was  in  the  living-room  and 
wanted  to  see  her.  She  went  down  at  once.  She  gave 
him  a  cordial  hand  and  smiled  straight  into  his  eyes, 
and  she  promptly  hushed  the  rush  of  words  on  his 
lips.  After  a  very  little  while  she  took  him  out  on  to 
the  veranda  where  May  was  waiting;  then  she  left 
them  with  the  cheery  suggestion  that  they'd  better 


228  SISTER  SUE 

be  making  their  plans  or  the  summer  would  be  gone 
before  they  knew  it. 

After  all,  it  proved  to  be  even  less  difficult  than 
Sister  Sue  had  feared.  Matters  at  home  seemed 
hardly  to  change  at  all  except  that  it  was  May  now, 
instead  of  herself,  that  spent  the  evenings  on  the  ve- 
randa with  Martin  Kent.  The  daytime  hours  May 
had  always  spent  with  him,  anyway.  True,  the  ex- 
planations to  her  father  and  Gordon  were  not  easy, 
and  certain  other  words  had  to  be  given  out  in  various 
quarters.  These,  too,  were  not  easy.  As  for  Gilmore- 
ville,  Sister  Sue  simplified  matters  there  by  saying  to 
Mrs.  Preston:  "My  sister  May  and  Mr.  Kent  are 
going  to  be  married  in  September.  If  any  person 
says  to  you  that  they  supposed  it  was  I  who  was  to 
marry  Mr.  Kent,  do  you  suppose  you  could  answer 
very  lightly,  something  like  this:  'Sister  Sue  the 
one?  Oh,  no,  it's  May.  Oh,  there  was  a  fancied  some- 
thing once  —  perhaps  —  between  the  other  two  — 
but  that's  all  over  now.  May  is  the  one';  could  you 
do  that,  Mrs.  Preston?" 

"  Could  I?  "  The  little  old  lady  threw  a  keen  glance 
into  Sister  Sue's  face.  "You  just  wait  and  see.  An* 
I'm  thinkin'  I'd  be  addin'  that  whatever  it  was  be- 
tween Martin  Kent  an'  Sister  Sue,  it  did  n't  never 
come  to  much,  I  guessed,  or  else  Sister  Sue  would  n't 
be  so  happy  an'  gay  over  fixin'  up  her  sister  to  marry 
him." 

"I  thought  I  could  trust  you,"  laughed  Sister  Sue 
as  she  turned  away. 

And  she  could,  as  Mrs.  Preston  soon  proved.   For 


SOME  READJUSTMENTS  *29 

it  was  in  a  measure  true,  as  Gordon  had  once  asserted, 
that  whatever  Granny  Preston  knew  the  whole  town 
knew,  but  it  was  also  true  that  the  town  knew  only 
what  Granny  Preston  chose  to  tell  it.  And  in  this 
particular  case  Granny  Preston's  words  were  chosen 
with  great  care  and  discrimination. 

After  all,  even  in  Gilmoreville,  it  was  only  a  nine 
days'  wonder,  and  long  before  the  day  set  for  the 
wedding  Sister  Sue  knew  that  she  had  ceased  to  be 
the  cynosure  of  every  curious  eye  the  minute  she 
appeared  on  the  street. 

Even  had  it  been  otherwise,  however,  Sister  Sue 
was  much  too  busy  to  pay  attention  to  what  Gilmore- 
ville was  thinking  or  saying,  for  Sister  Sue  was  trying 
to  create  a  trousseau  attractive  enough  to  suit  May's 
particular  taste  and  inexpensive  enough  to  be  encom- 
passed by  the  slender  funds  at  her  command.  And 
it  was  no  small  problem.  But  it  was  not  the  first 
struggle  Sister  Sue  had  had  with  "clothes."  From 
the  days  of  their  affluence,  when  the  tailors  and  dress- 
makers and  unlimited  credit  at  the  shops  had  been 
a  matter  of  course,  they  had  brought  with  them  to 
Gilmoreville  a  well-filled  wardrobe  which,  by  the 
skill  Sister  Sue  had  developed  in  remodeling,  had 
served  them  so  well  that  few  garments  had  had  to  be 
bought  thus  far.  But  the  supply  was  getting  low 
now.  There  were,  however,  two  or  three  evening 
dresses  and  a  somewhat  faded  pink  challis,  from 
which,  with  a  few  packages  of  dye,  some  new  patterns, 
and  Mrs.  Preston's  help,  Sister  Sue  had  evolved  three 
very  pretty  little  frocks  which  found  a  measure  of  ap- 


230  SISTER  SUE 

proval  even  in  May's  critical  eyes.  This  left  most  of 
the  money  at  Sister  Sue's  command  to  go  for  shoes 
and  gloves  and  hats,  and,  by  going  without  the  new 
suit  she  had  planned  for  herself,  she  was  enabled  to 
provide  a  trousseau  that  May  said  would  "pass"  — 
albeit  she  said  it  with  so  obvious  a  discontent  that 
Sister  Sue  opened  her  lips  as  if  she  had  something  she 
wanted  very  much  to  say.  But  she  did  not  say  it. 
There  were  a  good  many  times  these  days  that  Sister 
Sue  was  opening  her  lips  —  and  then  not  saying  it. 

The  wedding  took  place  on  the  third  day  of  Sep- 
tember. It  was  a  very  simple  but  a  very  pretty  one. 
Beth  Henderson  came  on  to  be  bridesmaid,  and  two 
or  three  other  Boston  friends  came  also.  It  was  said 
at  the  wedding  that  Sister  Sue  looked  fully  as  radiantly 
happy  as  the  bride.  And  perhaps  she  did.  Sister  Sue 
understood  very  well  that  she  could  n't  expect  Granny 
Preston  to  do  all  her  fighting  for  her.  And  Sister  Sue 
particularly  wanted  to  look  happy  at  that  wedding. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin  Kent  left  on  the  afternoon 
train  for  a  brief  honeymoon  trip,  after  which  they 
were  to  go  to  Boston  to  live.  Three  days  after  the 
wedding  Gordon  left  for  college.  He  told  Sister  Sue 
that  she  was  a  brick  to  let  him  go,  and  that  he  was  go- 
ing to  help  —  oh,  he  was  going  to  help  a  whole  lot, 
waiting  on  tables,  shoveling  paths,  anything.  But 
surely  something. 

When  he  had  gone  Sister  Sue  sat  down  and  drew 
a  long  breath;  but  she  did  not  sit  long;  her  father 
called  her,  and  said  he  had  lost  his  shears  and  could 
not  find  them  anywhere.  He  thought  perhaps  Sister 


SOME  READJUSTMENTS  231 

Sue  could  find  them  for  him.  Sister  Sue  then  got  up 
quietly  and  went  to  look  for  the  shears.  There  were 
other  things,  too,  which  her  father  had  lost,  and  some 
things  which  he  had  found  and  cut  which  he  should 
not  have  found  and  cut.  Two  buttons  were  off  his 
coat,  too,  and  his  linen  looked  shabby.  In  fact,  very 
plainly  the  old  gentleman  showed  that  the  thought- 
ful and  loving  care  usually  bestowed  upon  him  must 
have  been  absent  for  some  weeks  past. 

"  My !  But  I  guess  we  Ve  got  to  be  tended  to  now," 
said  Sister  Sue  brightly  as  she  rummaged  her  work- 
basket  for  two  black  coat  buttons.  "But  never  mind, 
dearie.  They're  all  gone  now,  and  there's  just  our 
two  selves  here." 

Gradually,  as  September  passed,  Sister  Sue  got 
back  "into  the  harness,"  as  she  expressed  it.  Her 
pupils  came  and  she  welcomed  them  eagerly.  Sister 
Sue  was  counting  her  money  very  carefully  these  days, 
and  every  new  dollar  helped.  The  wedding  and  the 
first  payment  toward  Gordon's  college  expenses  had 
made  no  small  hole  in  Sister  Sue's  savings  and  she 
was  beginning  to  worry  a  little  about  the  future. 
If  they  should  have  a  big  doctor's  bill!  And  there 
was  the  fuel  for  the  furnace!  And  if  Gordon  was 
to  be  put  through  college  nobody  knew  how  much 
would  have  to  be  paid  out  for  him. 

With  all  this,  and  more,  in  mind,  Sister  Sue  began 
to  economize  in  her  household  matters  even  more 
rigorously  than  ever.  Gordon  and  May  being  gone, 
she  told  herself  she  could  do  it.  There  were  now  only 
her  father  and  herself  to  feed,  besides  Delia,  and 


232  SISTER  SUE 

they  could  have  very  simple  food,  the  cheaper  cuts 
of  meat,  and  no  rich  pies  or  cake.  She  should  not  go 
out  much,  so  she  would  need  but  little  in  the  way  of 
clothing.  What  she  had,  indeed,  with  careful  mend- 
ing and  managing,  would  probably  do  very  nicely  for 
the  present.  She  wished  she  could  let  Delia  go,  but 
that  was  hardly  possible  —  not  if  she  kept  her  pupils, 
and  certainly  to  let  her  pupils  go  would  be  the  height 
of  folly.  She  could  close  part  of  the  house.  That 
would  be  a  good  idea,  and  very  promptly  she  put  it 
into  effect.  By  moving  the  piano  into  the  living- 
room,  and  changing  her  own  bedroom  to  the  little 
chamber  next  her  father's,  she  was  enabled  to  shut 
up  the  greater  part  of  the  rambling  old  house,  which 
left  much  less  to  heat  and  care  for.  She  settled  down 
then  for  the  winter.  When  the  early  December  snows 
came  and  piled  high  around  the  doors  and  windows, 
she  wrote  May  and  Gordon  that  she  was  as  snug  as 
a  bug  in  a  rug.  She  said  nothing  about  the  gloomy, 
half-closed  house,  the  mended  suit,  and  the  simple 
meals,  however. 

It  was  not  an  easy  winter.  The  snow  came  early 
and  stayed  late.  It  drifted  deep  through  the  road- 
ways, and  almost  defied  Mr.  Preston  to  keep  the 
paths  open  for  the  children  coming  to  their  lessons. 
Sister  Sue  went  out  but  little.  Twice  her  father  fell 
sick  with  severe  colds,  and  once  Delia  was  shut  up  in 
her  room  for  a  week  with  a  bad  throat.  Sister  Sue 
thought  her  days  were  full  before,  but  she  soon  learned 
there  is  nothing  quite  so  elastic  as  a  busy  day  to 
encompass  yet  other  tasks. 


SOME  READJUSTMENTS  233 

From  May  came  glowing  letters  telling  of  a  whirl 
of  gayety  among  new  friends  and  old.  Running 
through  them  was  only  one  thread  of  disappoint- 
ment. Martin's  new  book,  "The  Unknown  High- 
way," was  somehow  not  seeming  to  "catch  on."  The 
advance  sales  had  been  fair,  but  there  were  almost 
no  re-orders,  and  the  booksellers  reported  overloaded 
shelves  with  few  sales  after  the  first  spurt.  More- 
over, the  reviews  had  not  been  at  all  satisfactory,  and 
the  general  report  was  that  people  did  not  like  the 
book.  May  said  that  that  was  absurd !  That  she  just 
loved  the  book,  and  so  did  all  the  rest  of  their  friends 
that  she  had  asked  about  it.  Anyhow,  they  said  so. 

From  Gordon,  also,  came  glowing  letters  telling  of 
gay  times  and  winter  sports.  At  the  bottom  of  al- 
most every  letter  he  said  he  was  awfully  sorry,  but 
he  had  n't  yet  found  a  decent  job  —  at  waiting  on 
tables.  But  it  was  coming  —  oh,  it  was  coming.  Once 
he  wrote  that  he  had  tried  shoveling,  but  it  made  his 
arms  so  lame  that  he  was  unfitted  for  study  the  next 
day,  and  of  course  he  knew  Sister  Sue  would  n't  want 
him  to  do  that!  In  the  meantime  he  was  awfully 
sorry,  but  he  was  afraid  he  would  have  to  ask  for  a 
little  more  money  if  Sister  Sue  could  spare  it. 

And  of  course  Sister  Sue  spared  it. 

To  Sister  Sue,  as  the  winter  passed,  the  days  came 
to  be  one  endless  round  of  dreariness  and  monotony. 
Sometimes  she  cried.  Sometimes  in  the  privacy  of 
her  own  room  she  stormed  hotly  at  the  cruel  turn 
the  Fates  had  played  her  —  though  always  she  was 
ashamed  of  this,  and  afterwards  she  usually  would  do 


234  SISTER  SUE 

contrite  penance  by  some  special  tenderness  shown 
her  father.  Sometimes  to  Mrs.  Preston  she  would  say 
that  the  pan  of  potatoes  she  was  peeling  did  n't 
seem  to  lower  much  notwithstanding  her  long  labors. 
But  she  said  this,  as  both  knew,  merely  to  get  the 
comfort  of  Mrs.  Preston's  swift  response: 

"Never  mind.  Petaters  is  petaters,  an'  'way  ahead 
o'  turkey  when  ye  come  right  down  ter  bein'  neces- 
sary!" 

Sister  Sue  still  fled  to  her  piano  when  time  per- 
mitted, for  rest  and  refreshment  of  soul.  But  she 
never  lay  awake  nights  now,  visioning  herself  as  bow- 
ing to  entranced  multitudes,  though  still  in  her  dreams 
sometimes  she  heard  the  clamorous  call  of  "Encore! 
Encore!  Susanna  Gilmore!  Encore!  Encore!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ONE  WEEK  IN  JUNE 

FROM  the  south  came  warm  breezes  and  gentle 
rains.  Higher  and  higher  in  the  heavens  rolled  the 
sun.  The  huge  drifts  disappeared  and  were  not.  Here 
and  there  a  bit  of  green  flashed  back  smile  for  smile. 
Little  brown,  brave-hearted  buds  swelled  to  bursting 
with  the  promise  of  good  things  to  come. 

And  it  was  spring. 

Gilmoreville  said  never  had  they  known  such  a 
winter.  Never  did  they  want  to  see  its  like  again, 
and  never  had  spring  looked  so  good  to  them.  All 
of  which  Sister  Sue  in  the  old  Gilmore  homestead 
echoed  quite  fervently. 

And  spring  did,  indeed,  bring  to  Sister  Sue  a  most 
welcome  respite  from  many  things.  There  were  no 
more  frozen  water-pipes;  no  more  shivering  morn- 
ings with  the  fire  almost  out;  no  more  blizzards  that 
threatened  to  cut  them  off  from  all  mankind.  There 
was  now,  instead,  the  never-failing  interest  for  John 
Gilmore  in  the  garden  which  gave  the  shears  (and 
Sister  Sue)  a  rest.  There  were  sunshine,  soft  air, 
singing  birds,  and  the  wonderful  marvel  that  spring 
always  is  —  after  winter. 

Sister  Sue  drew  a  long  breath,  shook  off  the  leth- 
argy that  seemed  to  have  benumbed  her  senses  for 
months  past,  gloried  in  summer  frocks  and  low  shoes 
(even  though  they  were  a  bit  old  and  shabby),  and 


236  SISTER  SUE 

said  she  was  glad  she  was  living,  anyway.  Such  is  the 
magic  of  spring  —  after  winter. 

May  wrote  that  she  was  coming  home  in  June. 
She  was  n't  a  bit  well,  she  said,  and  she  presumed 
very  likely  the  country  air  would  be  good  for  her. 
Martin  thought  so.  The  baby  was  coming  in  Octo- 
ber, she  said.  She  should  n't  come  back  to  town,  of 
course,  until  after  that.  Martin  would  come  with  her 
to  Gilmoreville,  but  he  was  n't  planning  to  stay  at  all. 
He  had  a  wonderful  chance  to  go  on  a  three  months' 
camping  trip  down  in  Maine.  And  he  was  going. 
He  ought  to  get  some  good  copy,  he  said.  Anyhow,  he 
needed  the  trip  to  freshen  up.  He'd  had  a  hard  win- 
ter. But  he  would  not  be  in  Gilmoreville.  Sister  Sue 
need  n't  plan  for  him,  therefore,  but  she  might  plan 
for  herself  to  be  there  in  June  and  to  remain  until  after 
October,  anyway.  And  she  was  her  affectionate  sister 
May. 

Sister  Sue  read  this  letter  and  bit  her  lips  and  sat 
thinking  for  some  time.  She  had  just  reached  the 
decision  that,  yes,  she  would  write  her  sister  May 
that  she  might  come,  when,  upon  a  second  reading  of 
the  letter,  she  discovered  that  this  would  be  an  un- 
necessary formality.  May  had  already  written  that 
she  was  coming. 

From  Gordon  that  week  came  a  letter  saying  that 
some  friends  had  asked  him  to  go  with  them  on  a 
motor  trip  through  Canada,  and  if  she  did  n't  mind 
he  guessed  he'd  go.  He 'd  come  home,  of  course,  first. 
He  'd  have  to  do  that,  anyway,  for  some  new  clothes. 
His  old  clothes  were  in  an  awful  shape.  Could  he  have 


ONE  WEEK  IN  JUNE  237 

some  new  ones,  somehow?  Of  course,  being  on  a 
motor  trip,  he  would  n't  need  so  many  as  he  would 
for  —  for  a  trip  to  Palm  Beach,  say  —  but  he  'd 
simply  got  to  have  something. 

And  Sister  Sue  wrote  back  promptly  that  he  could, 
of  course  he  could.  He  would  have  to  have  what 
was  necessary,  certainly.  Then  she  went  upstairs  to 
the  attic  and  took  out  the  despised  old  challis  that 
had  been  discarded  as  quite  impossible  when  May's 
trousseau  had  been  planned. 

"I  could  dye  it,  I  think,"  mused  Sister  Sue,  eyeing 
it  critically.  Then  she  gathered  it  into  her  arms  and 
carried  it  downstairs. 

It  was  one  evening  early  in  June,  before  either  Gor- 
don or  May  had  arrived,  that  Sister  Sue,  sitting  alone 
on  the  veranda,  heard  a  quick  foot  coming  up  the 
walk.  She  turned  to  see  Donald  Kendall  coming  up 
the  steps. 

"Why,  Mr.  Kendall,  I  did  not  know  you  were  in 
town!"  she  exclaimed,  getting  at  once  to  her  feet. 

"I  was  n't  till  four  o'clock  to-day.  Thank  you, 
I  will  sit  down,"  he  said,  accepting  a  chair  at  the 
invitation  of  her  hand. 

He  sat  down.  Sister  Sue  waited  for  him  to  speak, 
but  as  he  still  remained  silent,  she  hazarded: 

"Is  your  mother  well?" 

"Eh?  What?  Oh,  I  beg  pardon.  Yes,  quite  well. 
Thank  you,"  he  added,  plainly  as  an  afterthought. 

There  was  another  silence.  In  her  corner  Sister  Sue 
smiled  —  quietly.  She  opened  her  lips  once  as  if  to 
speak,  but  she  closed  them  again  with  no  word  said. 


238  SISTER  SUE 

After  a  time  the  man  stirred  restlessly. 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  smoke?"  he  questioned. 

"Not  at  all." 

"Thanks." 

Another  silence  —  a  longer  one.  The  man  had 
something  to  do  now. 

He  stayed,  perhaps,  half  an  hour.  He  talked  a 
little  —  a  very  little.  Sister  Sue,  still  smiling  in  her 
corner,  met  him  halfway,  cordially,  but  inasmuch  as 
the  most  of  the  subjects  introduced  were  discussed  by 
him  with  a  short  "yes"  or  "no,"  or,  "I  don't  know," 
she  did  not  attempt  any  lengthy  discussion. 

It  was  not  until  he  rose  abruptly  to  go  that  she 
learned  the  real  intent  of  his  visit. 

"Miss  Gilmore,  I  suppose  I  was  —  well  —  er  — 
perhaps  a  bit  rude  to  you  on  that  last  morning  be- 
fore I  went  away  after  Old  Home  Day.  I  'm  sorry." 
His  lips  snapped  tight  shut  with  the  irritability  of  a 
man  performing  an  annoying  duty.  Then,  still  irri- 
tably, he  said:  "Miss  Gilmore,  I  expect  to  be  around 
here  about  a  week.  If  quite  convenient  to  you  I'll 
be  over  here  to-morrow  morning  at  nine  o'clock  — 
with  my  violin.  That  is,  I  mean,  may  I  ?  "  he  amended, 
with  the  impatience  of  one  not  accustomed  to  asking 
favors. 

Sister  Sue  laughed  merrily. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Kendall,  but  you  may  n't,  not  at 
nine  o'clock,"  she  smiled.  "I  have  pupils  all  the 
morning  and  most  of  the  afternoon,  but  I'll  be  glad 
to  have  you  come  in  the  evening,  as  early  as  seven, 
if  you  like." 


ONE  WEEK  IN  JUNE 

"Thanks.   I'll  be  here." 

The  next  moment  Sister  Sue  was  alone,  laughing 
all  by  herself  in  the  dark,  in  the  vine-shaded  corner  of 
the  veranda. 

Promptly  at  seven  the  next  evening  Donald  Ken- 
Mall  appeared  with  his  violin  and  his  music.  And 
promptly  at  seven  every  evening  for  the  next  week  he 
did  likewise,  to  say  nothing  of  several  other  times 
during  the  day  when  her  pupils  were  not  expected. 

And  when  the  week  was  over  and  he  was  gone. 
Sister  Sue  declared  to  herself  that  it  was  the  happiest 
seven  days  she  had  known  since  she  had  come  to 
Gilmoreville.  To  have  lived  again,  even  if  for  only 
one  short  week,  in  the  atmosphere  of  music  that  was 
music,  was  something  to  hold  dear  to  one's  heart; 
something  that  would  help  to  tide  one  over  many 
a  dreary  day  when  music  was  only  Johnny  Smith's 
scales  or  Ruth  Reynolds's  five-finger  exercises;  some- 
thing to  think  of  and  to  live  over  and  over  again  — 
in  memory.  And  it  would  help  through  so  many 
things. 

Sister  Sue  was  so  glad  afterwards  that  she  had  had 
that  blessed  week  of  joy,  for  it  did  help  through  so 
many,  many  things  —  and  she  had  so  sorely  needed  it, 
for  if  the  winter  had  been  a  hard  one,  the  summer 
that  followed  was  even  harder,  though  in  quite  a  dif- 
ferent way. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  LURE  OF  A  GOLDEN  CURL 

MRS.  MARTIN  KENT'S  baby  came  early  in  October. 
It  was  a  little  girl.  May  named  her  "Martia."  She 
said  it  was  the  nearest  she  could  come  to  "Mar- 
tin." They  had  wanted  a  boy.  They  had  planned  to 
call  him  after  his  father,  and  she  was  disappointed  to 
have  it  turn  out  to  be  a  girl,  after  all  their  plans. 

May  was  really  quite  fretful  about  it.  But  that 
was  nothing  new.  May  had  been  fretful  all  summer. 
She  had  been  sick  and  nervous  and  very  difficult  to 
please  ever  since  she  came,  as  Sister  Sue  found  out. 
She  had  wanted  all  of  Sister  Sue's  attention,  but  she 
had  known  that  the  pupils  must  come  first.  She  did, 
however,  grudge  the  attention  Sister  Sue  bestowed 
upon  their  father.  She  said  she  did  n't  see  why  Sister 
Sue  did  it,  either.  She  could  have  her  father  all  the 
time,  while  she  could  have  her,  her  only  sister,  and  a 
poor,  sick,  ailing  sister,  at  that,  only  these  few  short 
months  this  summer. 

As  for  May's  sharing  any  attention  with  her  father, 
that  was  quite  out  of  the  question.  She  told  Sister 
Sue  that  her  father  made  her  as  nervous  as  a  witch, 
and  as  for  trying  to  be  with  him  now  she  could  n't, 
and  she  should  n't.  Not  one  of  the  least  of  Sister 
Sue's  problems  that  summer,  therefore,  was  to  pay 
all  of  her  spare  attention  to  her  father,  and  all  of  her 
spare  attention  to  May,  and  at  the  same  time  always 
to  keep  the  two  separate  and  apart  from  one  another. 


THE  LURE  OF  A  GOLDEN  CURL  241 

It  was  not  strange,  then,  perhaps,  that  it  was  a 
good  big  breath  of  relief  that  Sister  Sue  drew  when, 
in  November,  Martin  Kent  came  and  took  his  wife 
and  young  daughter  back  to  Boston. 

Gordon  had  not  come  home  at  all  from  his  Cana- 
dian motor  trip,  but  had  gone  directly  to  college.  He 
had  needed  money,  of  course,  and  Sister  Sue  had 
sent  him  a  goodly  sum.  He  had  written  her  that  she 
was  a  peach.  Yes,  she  was !  And  he  declared  that  he 
was  going  to  make  them  all  proud  of  him.  He  had 
said,  too,  that  this  year  he  was  sure  —  he  was  very 
sure  —  that  he  could  find  that  table-waiting  to  do  — 
or  something. 

Sister  Sue  had  answered  back  that  it  would  help 
—  a  lot  —  of  course,  if  he  could  find  something  of 
the  sort  to  do,  but  that  the  main  thing,  after  all,  was 
that  he  should  do  well  in  his  studies,  graduate  with 
honors,  and  then  make  something  really  worth  while 
of  his  life;  make  them,  indeed,  proud  of  him.  She  said 
then  something  else,  something  that,  if  Gordon  could 
have  known,  or  if  he  had  had  the  vision  to  under- 
stand, covered  a  big  heartache  between  the  lines. 

"I  do  want  you  to  succeed,  dearie,"  she  wrote. 
"Even  May  has  given  up  her  story- writing  now,  and 
you  know  what  Sister  Sue  has  come  to." 

This  was  in  September. 

In  December,  when  Sister  Sue  and  her  father  were 
again  alone  in  the  old  house,  came  the  unexpected 
from  Gordon.  Sister  Sue  had  to  read  the  letter  twice 
before  she  got  its  full  meaning.  Then  from  the  in- 
coherent, rhapsodic  tangle  of  blue  eyes,  golden  hair. 


242  SISTER  SUE 

moonlight,  darlings,  and  sweethearts,  she  unraveled 
this  information: 

He  was  going  to  leave  college.  He  had  fallen  in 
love.  The  dearest  girl  in  all  the  world  had  promised 
to  be  his  wife.  She  was  the  most  beautiful  creature 
Sister  Sue  had  ever  seen,  with  blue  eyes  and  golden 
hair,  and  a  voice  that  was  like  the  voice  of  an  angel 
—  liquid  purity  and  melted  moonlight  were  rasping 
noises  beside  it.  Her  name  was  Miss  Mabel  Billings. 

And  now,  as  he  had  said  in  the  first  place,  he  should 
give  up  college.  He  would  have  to,  of  course.  He 
would  have  to  go  to  work  to  support  his  wife,  of 
course.  And  already  he  had  found  a  job,  a  splendid 
opening.  Mabel's  father  was  going  to  take  him  into 
the  store  (he  kept  a  grocery-store  —  a  big  one  right 
there  in  town).  He  was  to  have  fifteen  dollars  a  week 
at  the  start,  with  the  promise  of  rapid  advancement 
and  a  place  in  the  firm  later,  all  owing,  of  course,  to 
the  fact  that  he  was  to  be  the  son-in-law  of  "the  old 
man."  Not  every  one  in  the  store,  of  course,  could 
have  such  a  chance. 

Twice  Sister  Sue  read  this  letter;  then,  in  the  ter- 
ror and  dismay  of  the  realization  of  its  meaning, 
she  sat  down  at  once  and  answered  it  without  plan- 
ning in  the  least  what  to  say.  As  a  result  the  terror 
and  dismay  and  absolute  horror  in  her  heart  were  all 
on  the  written  sheets  that  were  dispatched  by  return 
mail  to  the  lovesick  youth  who  had  but  a  short 
twenty-four  hours  before  poured  out  his  heart  to  her. 

Sister  Sue  had  received  his  letter,  but,  oh,  did  he 
understand  what  he  was  doing?  Did  he  realize  what 


THE  LURE  OF  A  GOLDEN  CURL  243 

it  might  mean  to  be  tied  all  his  life  to  a  Billings  who 
kept  a  grocery-store?  And  to  be  in  the  grocery-store, 
too!  Was  he  sure  he  would  like  that?  When  he  had 
had  such  dreams?  And  was  he  sure  that  the  young 
woman  would  make  him  happy?  Golden  hair  and 
melted  moonlight  were  all  very  well,  of  course.  But 
hair  turned  gray  and  moons  did  n't  always  shine. 
And,  oh,  was  he  sure,  sure,  SURE  that  this  Mabel  per- 
son was  going  to  satisfy  all  his  deeper  feelings?  Why! 
He  was  nothing  but  a  boy !  Not  yet  twenty-one.  And 
to  give  up  college  now!  And  all  his  hopes  and  am- 
bitions! Oh,  he  did  not,  she  was  sure  he  did  not, 
realize  in  the  least  what  he  was  doing. 

By  return  mail,  then,  to  Sister  Sue  came  back  his 
answer.  And  this  letter  she  needed  to  read  but  once 
before  getting  its  meaning  —  and  realizing  her  mis- 
take. It  was  short,  cold,  and  not  at  all  incoherent. 
It  was  also  plainly  grieved,  and  hurt,  and  angry. 

Gordon  had  received  her  letter.  He  was  sorry,  he 
was  sure,  if  he  had  displeased  his  sister  Sue.  But  a 
man  must  marry  to  suit  himself.  She  must  realize 
that.  He  was  aware,  of  course,  that  he  was  not  yet 
twenty-one,  but  he  had  hoped  to  have  her  consent 
to  his  marriage.  He  proposed  to  earn  his  own  living 
from  now  on,  anyway.  A  grocery  business  might  not 
suit  persons  with  snobbish  tastes,  but  it  was  emi- 
nently respectable,  and  suited  him  perfectly.  As  for 
Miss  Billings  and  her  satisfying  his  deeper  feelings, 
his  only  doubt  in  regard  to  that  matter  was  lest 
he  be  unworthy  of  her.  And  he  begged  to  inform 
his  sister  Sue  that  he  did  emphatically  understand 


244  SISTER  SUE 

and  realize  what  he  was  doing.  She  need  not  fear. 
He  would  see  that  they  never  annoyed  her  with  their 
presence.  If  she  would  kindly  send  him,  then,  what 
few  belongings  he  had  in  the  house. 

And  he  signed  himself,  "Very  truly  yours,  Gordon 
Halstead  Gilmore." 

Sister  Sue  hastened  to  set  aright  her  mistake.  As 
if  she  were  going  to  let  anything  come  between  her 
and  Gordon!  He  might  marry  all  the  Billingses 
and  grocery-stores  in  Christendom  —  he  was  still  her 
brother  and  she  guessed  she  was  not  going  to  send  him 
"his  belongings."  Not  trouble  her  with  their  pres- 
ence! Indeed!  As  if  she  were  going  to  let  that  boy 
marry  a  girl  she  did  not  know!  She  should  have  her 
up  at  once,  of  course,  and  get  acquainted  with  her. 
And  if  Gordon  still  insisted  on  marrying  her  and 
she  proved  to  be  making  him  unhappy,  surely  then 
he  would  need  his  sister  Sue!  As  if  she  were  going  to 
do  anything  to  estrange  that  boy  now! 

And  Sister  Sue  sat  down  and  wrote  her  letter. 

She  said,  nonsense,  and  that  it  was  absurd,  and  that 
he  took  her  altogether  wrongly.  It  was  her  desire  to 
have  him  make  sure  that  he  cared  very  much  for 
Miss  Billings  before  he  took  the  irremediable  step  of 
marrying  her.  And  she  said  that  as  long  as  he  was 
so  sure  he  did  care  for  her  very  much,  it  was  all  right, 
and  he  had  her  congratulations  and  her  best  wishes. 
And,  of  course,  she  wanted  to  see  and  know  her  future 
sister-in-law,  so  would  he  not  please  bring  her  up  to 
the  old  home  for  a  real  country  Christmas  and  please 
stay  a  few  days?  If  he  would  himself  give  her  Miss 


THE  LURE  OF  A  GOLDEN  CURL  245 

Billings's  address  she  would  write  to  the  young  lady 
herself. 

And  she  signed  herself,  "Your  affectionate  Sister 
Sue." 

But  she  shivered  a  little  as  she  sealed  the  letter 
after  reading  it  over  twice  to  make  sure  there  was 
nothing  more  she  could  add,  and  she  did  not  breathe 
really  freely  till  his  reply  was  in  her  hands.  She  took 
a  long  breath  then,  for  Gordon  was  very  glad  he  had 
been  mistaken  in  the  tone  of  his  sister  Sue's  other 
letter  and  he  should  be  pleased  to  bring  Miss  Billings 
up  for  a  real  country  Christmas,  thank  you,  and  he 
enclosed  her  address  therewith. 

In  due  time  from  Miss  Billings  herself  came  a 
violet-scented  pink  note,  written  with  obvious  care  in 
forming  each  letter,  saying  that  she  would  be  pleased 
to  accept  Miss  Gilmore's  kind  invitation  to  Christ- 
mas, and  she  was  "Yours  very  respectfully,  Miss 
Mabel  Billings." 

Sister  Sue  was  somewhat  prepared,  therefore,  to 
find  her  brother's  fiancee  just  what  she  did  find  her  to 
be,  an  exceedingly  pretty,  pleasant  young  girl,  a  little 
timid,  anxious  to  please,  but  obviously  quite  unused  to 
the  sort  of  society  Gordon  had  been  accustomed  to. 

That  evening,  after  the  guest  had  retired  to  her 
room,  Gordon  told  his  sister  Sue  that  she  would  find 
Mabel  a  child  of  nature  and  quite  unspoiled  by  the 
world. 

And  Sister  Sue  said  yes,  she  did  appear  to  be  that. 

The  Christmas  visit  was  not  so  hopeless,  after  all. 
As  the  first  shyness  wore  off,  Miss  Mabel  was  not  so 


246  SISTER  SUE 

awkward  nor  so  distressed  over  her  efforts  to  do 
things  just  properly.  And  she  became  more  natural. 
Her  really  good  qualities  displayed  themselves.  She 
was  sweet-tempered,  kind-hearted,  and  sincerely 
anxious  to  be  of  service.  And  she  was  not  coarse. 
Sister  Sue,  noting  all  this,  told  herself  that,  after  all, 
time  and  good  associations  might  soften  the  girl's  de- 
fects, and  certainly  her  virtues  were  of  the  sort  that 
made  for  smoothness  in  running  the  machinery  of 
daily  living.  That  she  was  not  inherently  coarse 
would  certainly  make  it  easier  for  her  to  acquire  the 
little  niceties  and  refinements  that  Sister  Sue  feared 
Gordon  would  miss  some  day  —  if  she  did  not  ac- 
quire them.  One  thing  was  surely  certain,  they  were 
very  much  in  love  with  each  other,  and  the  fact  that 
Gordon  was  willing  to  work,  and  work  hard,  in  order 
to  marry,  might  be  not  without  a  salutary  effect,  so 
far  as  character-building  was  concerned. 

It  was  with  an  easier  mind,  therefore,  than  she  had 
had  when  she  greeted  them,  that  Sister  Sue  said 
good-bye  to  the  pair,  though  after  they  were  gone  and 
she  was  alone  again  with  her  father,  her  heart  mis- 
gave her  a  little,  and  she  drew  a  long  sigh  of  regret 
for  the  high  aspirations  and  ambitions  for  Gordon 
which  she  now  knew  she  could  no  longer  cherish,  and 
all  because  of  the  lure  of  a  golden  curl  and  a  sparkling 
eye.  For  whatever  else  the  visit  of  Miss  Mabel  Bil- 
lings had  taught  her,  it  had  certainly  convinced  her 
that  Gordon  not  only  understood  very  well  what  he 
was  doing,  but  was  determined  to  do  it.  He  had  told 
Sister  Sue  the  wedding  would  be  in  June. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  BROKEN  ARM 

THE  winter  passed  and  spring  came  again.  The  win- 
ter had  been  less  severe  this  time,  and  particularly  for 
Sister  Sue  it  had  not  been  so  arduous.  There  were 
not  so  many  shivering  mornings  with  the  fire  out,  nor 
quite  so  many  frozen  water-pipes.  The  family  had 
been  measurably  well,  and  the  pupils  had  been  more 
regular  in  attendance.  Expenses  had  not  been  so 
heavy  and  no  checks  had  to  be  sent  to  Gordon.  In- 
deed, Sister  Sue  wrote  to  May  that  she  was  making 
money,  was  growing  rich,  so  rich  that  she  was  going 
to  invest  in  a  new  spring  suit. 

When  June  came,  bringing  Gordon's  wedding,  she 
went  into  an  even  deeper  extravagance  and  bought 
a  brand-new  pretty  little  frock  for  the  occasion, 
"neither  dyed,  nor  mended,  nor  turned  inside  out," 
she  wrote  May.  But,  what  was  still  more  thrilling 
to  Sister  Sue,  she  went  to  the  wedding,  venturing  to 
leave  her  father  to  the  Prestons'  care  for  three  brief 
days.  It  was  the  first  time  for  four  years  that  she  had 
been  away  from  home  overnight,  and  she  told  May 
at  the  wedding  that  the  smoke  of  the  engine  was  like 
the  perfume  of  Araby  to  her  nostrils,  and  that  even 
the  railroad  tracks  looked  good  to  her,  which  only 
made  May  stare  and  exclaim,  "Why,  how  funny! 
I  hate  that  cindery,  sooty  railroad  smoke!"  But 
then  May  had  been  away  a  good  many  nights  during 


248  SISTER  SUE 

the  last  four  years.  That  might  have  made  some 
difference. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  wedding.  Most  weddings  are. 
It  would  be  a  sorry  thing,  indeed,  that  could  take 
away  all  the  beauty  of  a  wedding:  beauty  with  its 
charm  of  youth,  lights,  flowers,  music,  radiant  faces, 
and  holiday  garments.  Miss  Mabel  Billings,  in  her 
white  satin  and  tulle,  was  a  picture  of  loveliness,  and 
her  shy  embarrassment  rendered  her  all  the  more 
appealing.  Gordon  was  a  handsome  and  a  beatifi- 
cally  happy-looking  bridegroom.  The  guests  repre- 
sented the  usual  mixture  of  smiling,  or  teary-eyed, 
relatives,  some  rather  noisy  schoolmates  on  the  look- 
out for  a  chance  to  play  pranks,  and  a  few  intimate 
friends  of  the  family.  The  father  and  mother  of  the 
bride,  Sister  Sue  owned  to  herself,  she  genuinely 
liked.  They  were  simple,  kindly,  and  were  possessed 
very  evidently  of  a  generous  fund  of  good  common 
sense.  Sister  Sue  went  home  reflecting  that,  while 
keeping  a  grocery-store  might  not  bring  to  Gordon 
a  Ph.D.  or  even  an  A.B.,  yet,  after  all,  grocery-stores 
occupied  a  place  of  no  mean  value  in  the  scheme  of 
daily  living,  and  that  it  was  just  as  necessary  to  have 
potatoes  to  peel  as  it  was  to  peel  them  —  sometimes. 

May  had  told  Sister  Sue  at  the  wedding  that  she 
should  not  be  up  to  Gilmoreville  till  August  this 
year.  Then  she  and  the  baby  and  Martin  would 
come  for  a  few  weeks.  And  again  was  Sister  Sue  con- 
scious that  her  assent  to  the  proposition  would  be 
merely  an  unnecessary  formality  —  it  had  been  a 
statement  of  fact,  not  a  request  for  a  favor.  She 


A  BROKEN  ARM  249 

listened,  therefore,  with  a  quiet  smile,  while  May  went 
on  to  explain  that  the  first  month  of  their  summer 
holiday  was  to  be  spent  at  the  North  Shore  visiting 
friends. 

It  was  soon  after  returning  from  the  wedding  that 
Sister  Sue's  daily  paper  carried  the  information  that 
the  great  violinist,  Donald  Kendall,  had  gone  down 
a  twenty-foot  embankment  in  an  automobile.  He 
had  come  out  of  the  accident  with  multiple  cuts  and 
bruises  and  a  badly  broken  right  arm.  It  would  be 
some  time  before  he  could  play  the  violin  again,  the 
report  said. 

Two  weeks  later  Sister  Sue's  telephone  bell  rang 
at  nine  o'clock  one  morning. 

Sister  Sue  heard  this,  then,  over  the  wire,  spoken 
in  Mrs.  Kendall's  voice: 

"Is  this  Sister  —  er  —  is  this  Miss  Gilmore?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Kendall." 

"Will  —  will  you  be  so  good,  please,  as  to  come 
right  over?  My  son  wants  to  see  you."  It  was  the 
fretful  voice  of  a  woman  who  has  been  harassed  to 
the  breaking  point  of  temper  and  patience. 

Sister  Sue  smiled. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Kendall,  but  I  can't  just  now. 
I  have  a  pupil." 

"But,  Sister  Sue,  can't  you  excuse  her,  or  him,  or 
whatever  it  is,  for  this  once?  My  son  has  broken  his 
arm,  you  know.  Really,  he's  in  a  dreadful  state." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  heard  that  he  was  injured  and 
that  he  came  home  yesterday.  I'm  so  sorry.  How 
is  he?" 


250  SISTER  SUE 

"  I  've  just  told  you,  he 's  in  a  dreadful  state."  Mrs. 
Kendall's  voice  was  waxing  more  and  more  impatient. 
"I  can't  do  a  thing  with  him,  really,  if  you  don't 
come.  —  Can't  you  dismiss  that  pupil  this  once? 
You're  the  only  thing  he's  been  willing  at  all  to  have. 
He  has  n't  had  a  mouthful  of  breakfast." 

Sister  Sue's  merry  laugh  went  over  the  wire. 

"And  does  he  want  me  for  breakfast,  Mrs.  Ken- 
dall?" she  chuckled;  then  with  quiet  seriousness,  she 
added:  "Indeed,  Mrs.  Kendall,  I'm  very  sorry,  and 
I  '11  be  glad  to  do  anything  I  can.  I  have  an  hour  from 
eleven  till  twelve  and  I  '11  run  over  then.  I  can't  come 
before.  Indeed,  I  can't.  I'm  sorry.  But  I'll  be  over 
soon  after  eleven." 

"W-well,  if  that  is  the  best  you  can  do,"  accepted 
Mrs.  Kendall  grudgingly.  "Er  —  thank  you,"  she 
added,  as  an  unwilling  afterthought. 

Sister  Sue  was  still  smiling  as  she  turned  away 
from  the  telephone,  and  for  some  reason  the  smile 
continued  in  her  eyes  if  not  on  her  lips  all  the  rest  of 
the  morning. 

Just  after  eleven  she  went  through  the  garden  gate 
and  up  the  side  walk  to  the  Kendalls'  veranda.  Before 
she  could  ring  the  bell  Mrs.  Kendall  met  her  at  the 
door. 

"Thank  Heaven,  you're  here!  I  thought  't  would 
never  come  eleven  o'clock." 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  here,"  smiled  the  girl.  "But,  Mrs. 
Kendall,  what  —  what  is  it?  What  do  you  want  me 
to  do?" 

Mrs.  Kendall  threw  up  her  hands. 


A  BROKEN  ARM  251 

"Heaven  knows,  child!  I  don't!  I  don't  believe 
even  my  son  himself  does.  He 's  restless,  and  —  and, 
I'm  afraid,  irritable.  He's  always  been  perfectly 
well  and  strong,  and  he  does  n't  know  how  to  be 
sick.  He  is  n't  sick  now." 

"Is  it  more  than  just  the  broken  arm?" 

"Nothing  serious.  Only  a  few  cuts  and  scratches. 
His  head  is  still  tied  up  —  with  plasters.  But  his  arm 
—  it  was  a  bad  break.  The  doctor  says  it  will  be  weeks 
now  before  he  can  use  it.  He  can't  play,  you  know, 
and  always  before  he 's  been  able  to  vent  his  feelings 
on  the  violin  —  just  as  you  do  on  the  piano.  —  Your 
sister  said  you  did."  Mrs.  Kendall  smiled  faintly. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  smiled  Sister  Sue  in  her  turn.  "But, 
Mrs.  Kendall,  he  will  be  all  right,  in  time?" 

"Oh,  yes.  If  he  does  n't  fret  himself  to  death  in 
the  meantime,  but  — " 

"  When  are  you  two  women  going  to  get  done  with 
your  talking?"  demanded  an  irate  masculine  voice 
from  the  library  doorway  down  the  hall.  "How  do 
you  do,  Miss  Gilmore !  I  beg  your  pardon,  of  course, 
but  Mother  said  you  were  coming  to  see  me" 

"Donald!"  reprimanded  Mrs.  Kendall  with  a  de- 
spairing "you  see!"  look  toward  the  girl. 

"And  I  am  coming  to  see  you,"  nodded  Sister  Sue, 
laughing  a  little  as  she  came  forward,  "though  I 
understand  you  are  anything  but  pleasant  company 
just  now." 

"Yes,  I  know  I  am  a  beast,"  admitted  the  man 
cheerfully.  "Come  into  the  music-room;  I  want  you 
to  play  for  me." 


252  SISTER  SUE 

"For  you!"  Sister  Sue  bit  her  lips  the  minute  the 
words  were  out.  She  had  not  meant  to  put  it  quite 
like  that.  But  she  had  her  fears  for  nothing.  The 
man  did  not  take  it  as  she  had  thought  he  would. 

"Yes.  You  take  it  out  on  the  piano,  don't  you, 
when  things  go  wrong?" 

"Why,  y-yes,"  laughed  Sister  Sue.  "And  when 
they  go  right,  too." 

"Humph!"  grunted  the  man.  "Well,  I  don't  need 
that  kind  just  now.  But  I  do  need  the  other.  Now, 
sit  down,  please,  and  play." 

"As /feel?" 

"No!  As  /  do,"  he  snapped. 

Her  eyes  began  to  twinkle,  but  he  kept  on  speak- 
ing with  no  abatement  of  irritability.  "I'm  going  to 
grumble  and  growl  all  I  want  to.  I  —  I'll  try  not  to 
swear.  But  I  want  to  let  it  out  for  once  —  and  as  I 
talk,  you  play.  Understand?  And  let  me  tell  you 
right  now  you  '11  have  to  do  some  lively  playing  —  if 
you're  going  to  fitly  express  what  I  say." 

Sister  Sue  laughed  joyously  and  brought  her  hands 
together  in  a  soft  clap.  More  than  anything  else  in 
the  world,  perhaps,  Sister  Sue  loved  to  improvise. 

"  I  can  do  it !  I  can  do  it !  Oh,  I  know  I  can  do  it ! " 
she  cried,  running  to  the  piano  and  seating  herself. 
"  Ready.  Begin!"  she  commanded,  letting  her  hands 
rest  lightly  on  the  keys. 

And  he  did  begin,  and  he  kept  on.    He  roared  - 
and   scolded  • —  and   snapped  —  and   snarled  —  and 
bitterly  assailed  a  cruel  Fate  that  had  played  him  the 
beastly  trick.   The  car,  the  road,  the  chauffeur,  the 


A  BROKEN  ARM  253 

slipping  mud,  the  steep  embankment,  the  doctors, 
nurses,  medicine,  the  smells  and  sights  and  sounds 
of  the  past  three  detestable  weeks  —  they  were  all 
there.  And  in  Sister  Sue's  playing  they  were  all  there, 
too.  The  louder  he  talked  the  louder  she  played;  the 
faster  flew  his  tongue  the  faster  flew  her  fingers,  until 
they  were  both  in  gales  of  laughter  —  and  with  a 
rippling  run  and  a  crashing  chord  Sister  Sue  brought 
the  performance  to  a  triumphant  end. 

"Well!  Have  you  two  gone  crazy?"  Mrs.  Kendall 
stood  in  the  doorway. 

Her  son  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"No,  but  I  was  headed  in  that  direction  and  Miss 
Gilmore  saved  me.  I  'm  sane  now  —  for  a  while,  any- 
way. My !  But  that  felt  good  !  "  he  sighed  satisfiedly. 

"I'm  glad,  I'm  sure,  if  I  have  been  of  any  assist- 
ance," smiled  Sister  Sue  demurely.  Then,  glancing 
at  her  watch,  she  got  to  her  feet,  saying:  "I'll  have  to 
go  now,  I'm  afraid." 

"But  you'll  come  again?"  begged  the  man. 

"Of  course  she'll  come  again,  whenever  you  want 
her,"  spoke  up  the  relieved  mother  before  Sister  Sue 
could  answer. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'll  come  again  —  when  I  have  the 
time."  Sister  Sue  was  still  smiling,  though  the  em- 
phasis of  her  amended  sentence  was  unmistakable. 

And  she  did  come  again.  She  came  many  times 
during  the  next  month,  and  when  the  bandages  and 
plasters  ceased  to  decorate  Donald  Kendall's  head 
and  face,  he  crossed  the  yard  to  Sister  Sue's  garden 
gate  and  went  to  see  her.  They  played  checkers,  chess, 


254  SISTER  SUE 

and  cribbage  together.  They  read  together,  and  not 
infrequently  would  Sister  Sue  sit  again  at  the  piano 
and  let  him  vent  his  mind  through  her  own  finger- 
tips. And  when  the  arm  was  out  of  the  sling  and  the 
violin  could  be  held  again  in  position  and  the  bow 
drawn,  it  was  Sister  Sue  who  played  the  piano  for 
that  first  song  of  rejoicing  —  triumphantly,  yet  very 
carefully  played  —  over  the  now  no  longer  silent  bow. 

It  was  August  by  that  time,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Martin  Kent  and  little  Martia  soon  arrived.  Donald 
Kendall  did  not  come  to  the  house  after  that,  and  the 
necessity  for  Sister  Sue's  going  to  his  had  long  since 
passed,  so  now  the  two  did  n't  see  so  much  of  each 
other.  Before  long,  too,  Donald  Kendall  left  town. 
Mrs.  Kendall,  however,  for  a  long  time  did  not  cease 
to  talk  of  what  a  wonderful  thing  Sister  Sue  had  been 
able  to  do  for  her  son,  and  they  did  not  know  what 
they  should  have  done  without  her. 

It  was  just  as  well,  though,  perhaps,  that  Donald 
Kendall  went  when  he  did,  so  far  as  concerned  any 
further  benefit  from  Sister  Sue's  ministrations,  for 
after  the  Kents  came,  Sister  Sue  had  little  time  that 
she  could  call  her  own.  Martia  was  a  very  exacting 
child.  She  "took"  to  Sister  Sue  at  once,  and  May 
said  she  was  so  glad,  for  she  herself  needed  a  rest,  and 
she  could  take  a  real  rest,  she  declared,  whenever 
Sister  Sue  had  the  baby,  for  then  she  did  n't  worry  at 
all. 

Late  in  August  Gordon  and  his  wife  came  up  for  a 
week,  but  May  did  not  care  for  her  new  sister-in-law 
and  showed  it  very  plainly,  which  did  not  contribute 


A  BROKEN  ARM  255 

to  the  happiness  of  either  guests  or  hostess.  May  was 
ironical  and  sarcastic  and  bored  and  sulky,  and  Gor- 
don annoyed  and  angry.  Poor  little  Mabel,  obviously 
ignorant  as  to  the  cause  of  it  all,  chatted  away 
cheerily  to  each  one,  saying  how  perfectly  grand  it 
was  to  be  there  all  together  and  what  a  grand  plan 
it  was,  anyway!  Among  them  all,  Sister  Sue's  tact 
and  patience  were  tried  to  the  utmost,  and  perhaps 
no  one's  sigh  was  quite  so  relieved  a  one  as  was  hers 
when  they  all  went  home. 

It  was  then  that  she  suddenly  realized  how  very 
lonesome  she  was,  and  how  much  she  missed  the  vis- 
its of  Donald  Kendall. 

"Oh,  well!  He  was  good  fun,  even  if  he  was  so 
outrageously  conceited  and  irritable,"  she  said  to  her- 
self one  day,  her  eyes  idly  following  the  little  path 
through  the  garden  to  his  side  door. 

She  went  upstairs  then  to  sit  with  her  father.  John 
Gilmore  had  not  been  so  well  of  late.  Sister  Sue  won- 
dered sometimes  if  it  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MISTS,  SUNSHINE,  AND  CLOUDS 

IT  was  the  beginning,  but  the  end  was  not  yet.  John 
Gilmore  rallied  from  the  sickness  that  had  kept  him  in 
bed  a  week,  and  was  so  well  by  Christmas  that  when 
the  letter  came  from  Cousin  Abby,  Sister  Sue  wrote 
she  might  come. 

Yes,  Cousin  Abby  had  written  a  very  pitiful  letter. 
She  said  she  was  sick,  and  had  spent  all  her  money 
trying  to  get  well.  She  wished  she  could  die  quickly, 
but  the  doctors  said  it  would  probably  be  several 
months,  maybe  a  year,  before  she  did  die,  and  here 
she  was,  still  living  on!  Money  all  gone  and  not  well 
enough  now  to  earn  any  more !  She  asked,  then,  could 
she  come  to  Gilmoreville?  She  could  go,  she  supposed, 
to  some  charity  home  or  hospital;  but  the  thought  was 
torture  to  her.  At  most  she  had  but  a  few  more 
months  to  live,  and  she  would  like  to  spend  them 
among  her  own  kin  and  die  peacefully  with  some  one 
of  her  own  people  to  close  her  eyes.  And  Sister  Sue 
was  so  good,  so  kind !  Why,  if  she  could  be  with  Sis- 
ter Sue  she  would  n't  mind  the  loss  of  home  and 
money  nor  even  the  pain.  Could  she  come  ?  She  would 
n't  be  any  bother.  It  was  her  heart.  It  would  just 
stop  beating  some  day.  There  were  pains  at  times, 
oh,  awful  pains.  But  she  was  not  sick  in  bed  and  she 
could  wait  on  herself.  She  would  wait  on  herself  if 
only  Sister  Sue  would  say,  yes,  she  might  come. 


MISTS,  SUNSHINE,  AND  CLOUDS     257 

And  Sister  Sue  had  said  yes.  And  Cousin  Abby 
came.  A  faded,  forlorn  Cousin  Abby,  with  graying 
hair  and  sad  eyes,  and  none  of  the  brisk  alertness 
that  used  to  "order  the  maids  about  and  cut  a  dash 
with  the  motor  car,"  as  Gordon  had  once  described 
her. 

True  to  her  promise,  she  was,  indeed,  not  much 
trouble  to  care  for  (until  toward  the  end,  which  came 
in  August),  but,  inasmuch  as  she  spent  most  of  her 
waking  hours  in  bemoaning  her  own  sad  fate,  or  the 
"terrible  catastrophe  that  had  befallen  dear  Cousin 
John  and  his  family,"  her  conversation  was  not  only 
uncomfortable,  but  was  exceedingly  depressing,  and 
Sister  Sue  oftentimes  wondered  how  she  could  com- 
bat or  even  endure  it. 

When  May  learned  of  Cousin  Abby 's  circumstances, 
the  letter  and  its  result,  she  promptly  informed  Sister 
Sue  that,  of  course,  she  understood  that  this  had 
made  it  utterly  impossible  for  her  to  come  to  Gil- 
moreville  this  summer.  That  Cousin  Abby  always 
had  been  very  distasteful  to  her,  and  that  certainly 
now,  with  a  sensitive  child  like  Martia  to  consider, 
to  go  there  was  quite  out  of  the  question.  They 
should  go  to  the  shore  for  the  entire  summer.  That 
she  hoped  Sister  Sue  would  understand  their  absence 
from  Gilmoreville  this  summer  was  not  any  inten- 
tional slight  to  her  father,  but  was  occasioned  entirely 
by  Sister  Sue's  own  selfishness  in  entertaining  a 
guest  that  made  other  guests  impossible. 

Sister  Sue  gasped  a  little  at  the  "selfishness,"  but 
beyond  a  pleasant  note  to  May,  regretting  her  deci- 


258  SISTER  SUE 

sion  to  absent  herself  from  Gilmoreville,  she  made  no 
comment. 

Gordon  wrote  that  they,  too,  would  not  be  up  to 
Gilmoreville,  though  he  did  not  give  Cousin  Abby's 
presence  as  the  excuse.  He  wrote  as  the  proud  father 
of  a  new  baby.  He  was  afraid  the  journey  would  be 
quite  unsafe  for  either  his  wife  or  his  son. 

Sister  Sue,  therefore,  except  for  her  father  and 
Cousin  Abby,  was  alone  all  through  the  summer, 
which  was  well,  as  it  turned  out,  for  the  poor  little 
invalid  guest  was  a  great  sufferer  the  last  two  months 
of  her  life,  and  Sister  Sue,  with  her  pupils  and  all,  had 
her  hands  quite  full  enough  as  it  was. 

In  September,  two  weeks  after  the  funeral,  Donald 
Kendall  came  to  his  mother's  home  for  a  week's  visit. 
He  had  been  in  town  just  ten  minutes  when  he  hur- 
ried over  to  his  neighbors  to  tell  Sister  Sue  that  there 
was  nothing  the  matter  with  his  good  right  arm  this 
time,  and,  indeed,  there  certainly  did  not  seem  to  be, 
judging  by  the  way  he  made  use  of  it  during  the  seven 
days  he  was  there.  From  morning  until  night  (and  it 
would  apparently  have  been  from  night  until  morning 
if  Donald  Kendall  could  have  had  his  way)  the  two 
were  playing  every  spare  minute  that  Sister  Sue 
could  wring  from  her  busy  life.  And  when  the  week 
was  over,  Sister  Sue  declared  to  herself  that  that  one 
week  had  fully  compensated  for  the  long  summer  of 
distress  and  discomfort,  besides  fortifying  her  for 
whatever  the  future  had  in  store.  It  seemed  so  good 
to  live  with  real  music,  once  more,  Sister  Sue  told 
herself.  Nor  did  it  occur  to  her  that  the  player  of 


MISTS,  SUNSHINE,  AND  CLOUDS     259 

the  music,  the  real  music,  had  anything  more  to  do 
with  her  rest  and  refreshment  and  joy  than  that  he 
was  merely  the  willing  instrument  through  which  the 
music  poured. 

It  did  occur  to  Granny  Preston.  After  Donald 
Kendall  had  gone,  she  asked  the  question  of  Sister 
Sue:  "If  your  father  got  better,  really  himself  again, 
so  ye  could  leave  him  all  right,  would  ye  go  on,  that 
is,  I  mean  have  ye  given  up  all  idea  of  ever  goin'  on 
an'  bein'  that  concert  player  ye  wanted  ter  be?" 

Sister  Sue's  face  instantly  flamed  into  excited 
eagerness. 

"Give  it  up?  No,  no!  Indeed,  no!  If  Father  should 
get  better,  and  if  I  wasn't  too  old — !  I'm  only 
twenty-five  now,  you  know !  I  could  do  it !  I  know  I 
could !  You  should  hear  the  nice  things  Mr.  Kendall 
says  about  my  playing.  Oh,  no,  I  have  n't  given  it 
up  —  not  yet!" 

All  of  which  only  goes  to  prove  that  not  even  yet 
were  those  clamorous  calls  of  "Encore!  Encore! 
Susanna  Gilmore!  Encore!"  quite  silenced  in  Sister 
Sue's  ears. 

But  Mrs.  Preston  only  sent  a  sharp  glance  over  her 
spectacles  and  grunted  "Humph!" 

Martin  Kent's  newest  book  came  out  in  October. 
As  usual,  Sister  Sue  received  an  autographed  copy 
from  the  author,  and  very  promptly  read  it.  As  was 
usual,  also,  she  wrote  a  note  of  congratulations  and 
best  wishes  to  her  brother-in-law.  The  note  this  year 
had  been  a  little  harder  than  heretofore  to  write. 
Sister  Sue  worried  a  little  over  it  after  she  dispatched 


260  SISTER  SUE 

it.  She  hoped  it  had  not  shown  the  disappointment 
she  had  felt  in  the  book.  She  had  been  growing  more 
and  more  disappointed  in  them  all,  but  this  latest 
was  quite  the  worst,  she  thought.  He  had  named  it 
"Blixie."  It  was  obviously  an  imitation  of  his  first 
and  only  success,  "Trixie,"  and  a  weak  one  at  that. 
That  her  fears  about  her  note  were  not  ground- 
less Sister  Sue  realized  very  soon,  for  a  letter  quickly 
came  from  May  reading  as  follows: 

You  don't  like  "Blixie"  [she  began  abruptly,  after  the 
salutation] ;  anybody  could  see  that  from  your  letter.  Mar- 
tin was  real  hurt.  I  do  wish  you  could  have  kept  it  from 
him.  I  had  an  awful  time  with  him.  He  was  really  very 
much  troubled,  coming  as  it  did  on  top  of  all  the  rest. 
That  is,  you  don't  know  it,  perhaps,  but  I  mean  the  criti- 
cisms on  "Blixie  " ;  they  're  horrid !  Perfectly  horrid !  They 
say  it's  nothing  but  a  very  weak  imitation  of  "Trixie" 
and  that  he's  tried  to  duplicate  that  wonderful  success  and 
failed  miserably. 

Martin  was  feeling  especially  out  of  fix  when  your  letter 
came,  for  he'd  just  been  reading  a  criticism  saying:  "Mar- 
tin Kent  was  evidently  destined  to  be  that  deplorable  but 
very  common  anomaly  in  the  literary  world,  the  author  of 
one  book  no  matter  how  many  books  may  follow  the  single 
success."  The  mean  things!  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
they  do  want.  It 's  all  their  own  fault,  anyway.  They ' ve 
never  liked  a  single  one  of  Martin's  books  since  "Trixie." 
When  he  wrote  "The  Unknown  Highway  "  they  said  it  was 
nothing  so  good  as  "Trixie"  and  was  unlike  that  wonderful 
little  gem,  and  that  the  author  would  have  done  a  great 
deal  better  to  stick  to  the  line  of  his  original  success.  And 
they  said  the  same  sort  of  things  about  his  other  books. 
Well,  now  this  year  he  tried  to  stick  to  the  line  of  his  original 
success.  He  tried  to  write  a  story  like  "Trixie."  And  now 


MISTS,  SUNSHINE,  AND  CLOUDS     261 

what  does  he  get?  He's  "copying,"  if  you  please!  And 
doing  it  very  poorly,  too !  It  makes  me  sick !  It 's  positively 
disgusting! 

Besides,  it's  really  serious,  from  the  money  point  of 
view,  I  mean.  None  of  his  books  have  been  much  of  a  suc- 
cess except  "Trixie,"  and  Martin's  preaching  economy  to 
me  now  all  the  time.  He  says  we've  got  to  economize.  I 
tell  him  that  I  '11  have  to  go  trying  my  hand  again  at  writ- 
ing. I  did  get  one  story  accepted,  you  know. 

The  letter  closed  then  with  a  few  words  about  Mar- 
tia  and  about  the  weather.  But  there  was  a  post- 
script, which  said: 

If  you  can  think  up  anything  nice  to  say  about  "Blixie" 
when  you  write,  for  Heaven's  sake  say  it ! 

Sister  Sue,  however,  could  not  think  up  anything 
apparently.  At  all  events,  she  evidently  forgot  all 
about  the  postscript  the  next  time  she  wrote. 

As  the  winter  came  on,  John  Gilmore  grew  more 
feeble.  He  came  less  frequently  downstairs  now, 
spending  much  of  his  time  sitting  quietly  in  his  room 
looking  out  upon  his  snow-covered  garden.  He  did  not 
seem  to  be  suffering  any  pain  and  Sister  Sue  refused  to 
think  that  he  was  really  not  so  well. 

"It  is  just  that  he  can't  get  out  of  doors,"  she  said 
to  Mrs.  Preston  one  day.  "He'll  be  all  right  when 
spring  comes  and  he  can  get  to  digging  in  his  beloved 
garden  again." 

She  said  the  same  thing  to  Donald  Kendall  one 
day  just  after  Christmas.  (The  violinist  had  come  on 
to  spend  the  holidays,  ostensibly  with  his  mother, 
though  in  reality  he  seemed  to  be  spending  them  with 


262  SISTER  SUE 

her  neighbor,  Sister  Sue.)  It  was  then  that  Donald 
Kendall,  curiously  enough,  asked  Sister  Sue  a  similar 
question  to  that  asked  by  Mrs.  Preston  not  very  long 
before: 

"Miss  Gilmore,  have  you  quite  given  up  all  idea  of 
a  musical  career?  That  is,  if  your  father  should  get 
very  much  better  so  that  he  did  not  need  you  at  all, 
would  you  take  up  your  music  again?" 

He  had  asked  the  question  diffidently,  and  Sister 
Sue  smiled.  He  was  thinking  of  that  peremptory 
command  of  his  that  she  go  with  him  as  his  accom- 
panist, of  course!  But  she  would  show  him  most  em- 
phatically that  that  could  n't  be. 

So  she  answered  him  very  much  as  she  had  an- 
swered Mrs.  Preston;  and  she  let  him  understand  that, 
yes,  oh,  yes,  she  assuredly  should  go  on  with  her 
music. 

"I  should  go  straight  to  Signer  Bartoni,"  she  de- 
clared, "and  I  should  ask  him  to  put  me  in  shape 
again,  if  't  was  necessary,  and  then  tell  me  where  to 
go  and  what  to  do  to  train  myself  for  a  concert 
pianist." 

She  said  more,  very  much  more.  Because  she  be- 
lieved that  Donald  Kendall  had  sympathetic  ears 
and  would  understand,  she  let  him  see  deep  into  her 
heart,  deeper  than  ever  before,  of  what  had  been  her 
hopes,  her  longings,  her  ambitions.  And  when  she  had 
finished  and  had  turned  back  to  the  piano,  flushed 
and  trembling  with  the  excitement  of  anticipation, 
Donald  Kendall  realized  a  little  something  of  what 
those  long  years  of  sacrifice  and  waiting  had  meant  to 


MISTS,  SUNSHINE,  AND  CLOUDS     263 

this  girl  whose  companionship  he  so  craved.  But  to  it 
all  Donald  Kendall  made  no  answer.  He  ejaculated  a 
short  "Humph!"  then  he  lifted  his  violin  to  position 
and  began  to  play  furiously  the  scherzo  on  the  rack 
before  him  —  playing  it  at  almost  double  his  usual 
tempo. 

Donald  Kendall  had  understood,  but  he  had  not 
sympathized.  For  Donald  Kendall  had  seen  the  vision 
of  Sister  Sue,  as  the  "great  artiste,"  bo  whig  her  ap- 
preciation to  the  applauding  multitudes,  and  he  had 
heard  again,  more  clearly  than  before,  that  clamorous 
call  of  "  Encore !  Encore !  Susanna  Gilmore !  Encore ! " 
and  he  was  not  pleased.  It  was  not  now  for  an  ac- 
companist on  his  concert  tours  that  he  wanted  Sister 
Sue.  He  had  found  that  out.  He  wanted  her  accom- 
paniment, yes,  he  told  himself  bitterly,  passionately, 
but  it  was  her  accompaniment  to  all  his  life,  not  merely 
to  his  violin.  And  if  still  she  was  cherishing  hopes  of 
pursuing  that  infernal  career  of  hers,  one  — ! 

With  a  crashing  cadence  of  staccato  double-stop- 
ping he  brought  the  scherzo  to  a  sudden  close  and 
abruptly  and  very  formally  took  his  leave. 

Once  more  it  appeared  that  this  wisp  of  a  tantaliz- 
ing bit  of  femininity  was  not  going  to  give  him  what 
he  wanted  when  he  wanted  it.  And,  like  the  spoiled 
child  that  he  was,  Donald  Kendall  went  home  and 
sulked.  Lying  awake  in  the  night,  however,  he  had 
decided  that,  even  so,  there  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  deprive  himself  of  the  pleasure  of  her  piano- 
forte accompaniments  whenever  he  could  have  them. 
So,  as  usual,  in  the  morning  he  went  over  to  her  house 


264  SISTER  SUE 

promptly  at  nine  o'clock,  though  he  had  to  content 
himself  with  the  magazines  on  the  living-room  table 
for  a  full  hour  till  the  departure  of  Sister  Sue's  pupils 
gave  her  a  short  time  of  freedom  to  play  for  him. 

The  thought  that  he  might  as  well  enjoy  these  ex- 
ceedingly satisfying  accompaniments  as  long  and  as 
often  as  he  could  must  have  occurred  again  and  yet 
again  to  Donald  Kendall,  for  that  winter  he  fell  into 
the  way  of  running  up  to  Gilmoreville  between  en- 
gagements, on  one  or  two  days'  visits,  and  in  the 
month  of  May  he  thought  he  had  found  a  whole 
week  to  stay. 

But  Donald  Kendall  did  not  stay  the  whole  week. 
He  stayed  three  days  and  then  went  away.  And  his 
going  was  very  much  like  the  running  away  of  a  man 
who  had  found  his  feet  on  the  edge  of  an  engulfing 
quicksand  and  felt  the  ground  underneath  him  al- 
ready slipping.  Donald  Kendall  knew  now  that  he 
could  not  go  on  indefinitely  "enjoying"  those  ac- 
companiments. He  was  beginning  to  love  the  player 
altogether  too  well  to  want  to  see  her  like  this  and  be 
with  her  like  this,  and  yet  know  that  it  would  always 
be  like  this,  nothing  more,  and  not  even  this  after 
she  was  free  to  live  her  own  life. 

And  Donald  Kendall  believed  that  she  would  be 
free  very  soon  now.  He  had  seen  John  Gilmore  many 
times  during  the  winter  and  had  watched  him  moving 
about  and  felt  then  that  the  feeble  old  gentleman 
could  not  live  through  till  spring,  surely  not  a  month 
longer  now.  He  learned,  too,  from  his  mother,  that 
the  general  belief  in  the  village  was  that  the  end  was 


MISTS,  SUNSHINE,  AND  CLOUDS     265 

near.  When  that  end  came  the  girl  would  be  free  to 
live  her  own  life.  In  Donald  Kendall's  eyes  was  the 
vision  of  her  as  she  had  talked  to  him  that  December 
day,  flushed,  palpitating,  and  shining-eyed;  and  to  his 
ears  came  again  very  distinctly  the  clamorous  "En- 
core! Encore!  Susanna  Gilmore!  Encore !"  that  her 
glowing  words  had  evoked. 

In  December  he  had  loved  her  and  he  had  run  away 
—  for  a  night,  because  he  loved  her  and  could  not 
have  her  for  his  own.  He  still  loved  her  and  he  was 
going  to  run  away  again.  This  time  for  always  — 
perhaps.  He  now  loved  her  too  well  to  ask  her  to  give 
up  her  dreams  of  success  for  the  sake  of  marrying  him ; 
and  he  loved  her  so  well  now  that  he  did  not  dare  re- 
main and  run  the  risk  of  sometime  letting  her  see 
just  how  dear  she  was  to  him  and  how  necessary  she 
was  to  his  happiness.  Was  he,  after  all  her  long  years 
of  waiting  and  self-sacrifices,  going  to  bring  to  her 
dear  eyes  one  shadow  of  regret  or  of  disappointment, 
just  as  she  saw  the  way  opening  wide  before  her  to 
the  long-looked-for  goal?  Never!  Let  her  spread  her 
wings  and  fly.  Let  her  have  her  glorious  flight  out 
into  the  freedom,  with  the  wide,  wide  world  open  be- 
fore her,  and  without  a  thought  of  any  one  behind  her 
who  would  be  looking  after  her  with  longing  eyes  and 
outstretching  arms.  Let  her  go  out  unshackled  and 
unhampered.  Then,  after  she  had  tasted  the  sweets 
of  fame  and  success  and  had  found  they  were  not 
sweet  after  all,  and  after  she  had  come  to  feel  wearied 
with  the  incessant  bowing  of  her  thanks  and  bored  by 
the  everlasting  demand  for  encores,  it  might  be  then 


266  SISTER  SUE 

that  she  would  be  glad  to  come  into  the  circle  of  his 
arms  and  let  him  love  and  care  for  her  all  the  rest  of 
the  days  of  her  life.  But  now  —  now  —  he  could  not, 
dare  not,  remain  another  day,  not  another  day. 

And  so  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day  he  went 
through  the  side  gate  and  up  the  garden  walk  with  a 
very  determined  air  —  and  he  did  not  carry  his  violin. 
He  had  planned  to  stay  as  short  a  time  as  possible. 

"I  have  come  to  say  good-bye,"  he  began  in  a  par- 
ticularly gay  voice,  as  he  ascended  the  steps. 

"G-good-bye?"  Sister  Sue's  voice  was  startled. 
"Why,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  stay  a  week! 
And  where  is  your  violin?" 

"That's  it  —  I  can't  stay  —  and  I  did  n't  bring  it. 
That's  what  I  came  over  to  tell  you  —  I'm  going 
away  — "  Rapidly  talked  the  man  and  in  the  same 
particularly  gay  voice.  "I'm  going  to-morrow  morn- 
ing —  invitation"  (which  was  true)  —  "week-end  — 
to  the  Bentons'  —  down  at  the  North  Shore.  They  've 
just  opened  up  their  cottage." 

"  The  —  the  Bentons  —  at  the  —  North  Shore  —  " 
Sister  Sue  echoed  the  names  because  evidently  she 
knew  not  what  else  to  say.  Her  eyes  were  puzzled, 
questioning. 

"Yes,  the  Bentons,"  he  nodded.  Then,  because  he 
wanted  to  talk  of  anything  but  themselves  and  their 
own  minds  and  feelings,  he  plunged  at  once  into  a 
somewhat  voluble  description  of  his  host's  family. 
"Nice  people.  Really  a  good  sort,  you  know,  in  spite 
of  their  loads  of  money.  There's  a  daughter  Beth 
who  sings,  and  a  daughter  Helen  who  paints  —  very 


MISTS,  SUNSHINE,  AND  CLOUDS     267 

well,  too.  Then  there  are  two  boys,  twins,  in  Harvard. 
There's  always  something  doing  at  the  Bentons',  you 
may  be  sure." 

"Yes  I  —  I  should  think  so,"  murmured  Sister  Sue. 

"And  —  so  I'm  going  to-morrow  —  yes,  to-mor- 
row morning." 

He  said  more,  quite  a  little  more.  He  told  of 
various  experiences  he  had  had  in  times  past  at  the 
Bentons'  cottage  down  at  the  North  Shore,  and  he 
told  what  he  imagined  he  would  do  this  time.  He 
rose  to  his  feet  then  a  little  abruptly  and,  before 
Sister  Sue  quite  realized  what  was  happening,  he  was 
gone. 

On  the  porch,  alone,  Sister  Sue  shivered  as  if  with 
a  sudden  chill.  Pulling  her  coat  a  little  more  closely 
about  her,  she  waited  a  moment,  then  went  into  the 
house.  She  sat  down  at  the  piano  after  a  while  and 
began  to  play,  and  there  was  in  her  music  a  thread 
of  questioning  that  seemed  not  to  have  found  an 
answer  even  when  the  player  rose  from  the  piano  a 
long  half -hour  later. 

John  Gilmore  did  not  die  that  spring,  nor  in  a 
month,  nor  yet  in  two  months.  He  lived  on  through 
the  summer  and  into  the  next  winter.  But  he  took  to 
his  bed  in  June  and  from  that  time  he  suffered  in  a 
way  that  made  his  days  and  nights  a  torture  not  only 
to  him,  but  to  his  daughter  Sue  as  well. 

In  July,  May  came  up  with  Martin,  but  they  stayed 
only  a  few  days.  May  said  she  was  much  too  sensi- 
tive to  stand  anything  like  that.  Later,  Gordon  came 


268  SISTER  SUE 

with  Mabel  and  little  Gordon,  Jr.  Mabel  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  stay.  She  said  she  knew  she  could  help 
Sister  Sue  a  little;  but  Gordon  insisted  that  she  go 
back  with  him.  He  said  that  she  was  delicate  and 
nervous  and  had  not  fully  regained  her  strength  from 
her  operation  in  the  spring.  Besides,  he  said,  the 
baby's  crying  might  disturb  their  father,  and  anyhow 
he  wanted  them  with  him.  So,  reluctantly,  Mabel 
went  back  with  Gordon.  Sister  Sue  was  alone  then 
with  her  father  except  for  Delia  in  the  kitchen.  Both 
May  and  Gordon  had  suggested  a  nurse,  and  one  had 
been  hired  for  a  time,  but  was  soon  dismissed.  Her 
presence  annoyed  the  sick  man,  and  her  ministrations 
seemed  to  make  him  worse  rather  than  better.  True 
to  his  habit  for  so  long,  John  Gilmore  wanted  his 
daughter  Sue  —  no  one  else.  Fortunately  he  did  not, 
through  the  summer,  need  very  frequent  attentions, 
so  Sister  Sue  was  still  enabled  to  keep  on  with  her 
pupils,  much  to  her  satisfaction  and  relief.  She  not 
only  wanted  the  money,  but  she  felt  she  must,  at 
least  a  part  of  the  time,  have  something  else  to  think 
of  and  to  do,  something  that  would  take  her  mind  not 
only  off  her  father's  sufferings  but  also  off  herself. 

Sister  Sue  was  ashamed  and  dismayed.  She  ad- 
mitted it  to  herself  now.  She  was  in  love  with  a  man 
who  not  only  was  supremely  indifferent  to  herself,  — 
of  that  she  was  very  sure,  —  but  very  evidently  was 
in  love  with  another  woman  —  a  Beth  who  sang  or  a 
Helen  who  painted. 

Sister  Sue  wondered  sometimes  just  how  long  she 
really  had  been  caring  for  Donald  Kendall.  She  had 


MISTS,  SUNSHINE,  AND  CLOUDS     269 

suspected  it  first  at  the  time  when  he  had  gone  away  so 
suddenly  that  week  in  May  and  she  had  found  how 
empty  were  those  three  last  days  of  the  week  which 
she  had  expected  would  be  so  full.  But  she  had  put 
the  thought  out  of  her  mind  at  once  with  an  indignant 
"Absurd!  Ridiculous!  Why,  the  idea!"  In  spite 
of  this,  however,  she  found  herself  watching  for  his 
return  and  even  asking  Mrs.  Kendall  one  day  when 
her  son  was  coming  back.  It  was  the  answer,  perhaps, 
that  had  really  opened  her  eyes  to  that  which  she  had 
before  refused  to  see  in  her  heart. 

"Back  here?  Well,  not  at  all,  I'm  afraid,  this  sum- 
mer," said  Mrs.  Kendall.  "He's  gone  now  on  a 
yachting  cruise  with  the  Bentons  and  I  can't  see,  from 
the  plans  he  tells  me  of,  that  he's  leaving  any  time 
at  all  for  Gilmoreville.  A  shabby  way  to  treat  his 
mother,  I  think,  don't  you?" 

"Y-ye-yes,  I  do!"  Sister  Sue  stammered,  wonder- 
ing if  the  sudden  tightness  that  seemed  to  take  her 
very  breath  did  show  in  her  face. 

She  got  away  then  as  soon  as  she  could,  appalled  at 
the  thing  she  now  knew  beyond  all  doubt;  a  con- 
viction that  no  "absurd!"  or  "nonsense!"  or  "the 
very  idea!"  could  silence. 

She  knew  now  why  the  days  were  so  long  and 
empty  immediately  after  Donald  Kendall  had  gone. 
She  knew  now  why  the  past  winter  with  its  frequent 
visits  from  Donald  Kendall  had  seemed  so  short. 
She  knew  now  why  the  Beth  who  sang  and  the  Helen 
who  painted  had  always  given  her  a  vague  uneasiness 
and  the  desire  to  banish  them  at  once  from  her 


270  SISTER  SUE 

thoughts.  She  knew  now,  too,  something  else.  She 
knew  that  never,  never,  had  she  loved,  really  loved, 
Martin  Kent.  Last  of  all  she  knew,  at  least  she  was 
very  sure  she  knew,  that  Donald  Kendall  did  not 
love  her.  If  he  had  loved  her,  would  he  have  gone 
away  in  the  middle  of  a  week  to  a  Beth  who  sang  and 
a  Helen  who  painted?  And  if  he  had  loved  her,  would 
he  not  have  come  up  at  least  once  during  all  that 
long,  long  summer?  Giving  herself  the  only  answers 
to  these  questions  she  thought  possible  as  being  true, 
it  is  no  wonder,  perhaps,  that  Sister  Sue  was  ashamed 
and  dismayed,  and  that  she  was  glad  of  even  a  bun- 
gling scale  played  by  Johnny  Smith  to  get  her  mind 
off  herself.  And  so  the  long  summer  passed  and 
September  came. 

And  September  brought  Donald  Kendall. 

Sister  Sue  knew  that  he  was  coming,  but  she  did 
not  know  the  time  of  his  expected  arrival.  She  hated 
herself  because  each  day  her  feet  would  every  little 
while  take  her  to  the  window  commanding  a  view  of 
the  Kendalls'  front  walk  and  because  her  ears  each 
day  would  listen  for  the  sound  of  a  motor  car  coming 
up  the  street.  At  five  o'clock  one  day  he  came,  and 
at  half-past  seven  he  rang  the  Gilmores'  doorbell. 
For  fifteen  uncomfortable  minutes  he  sat  stiffly  erect 
on  the  old  haircloth-covered  sofa  making  polite  in- 
quiries as  to  the  state  of  her  own  health  and  that  of 
John  Gilmore  and  talking  of  inconsequential  nothings. 
Then  he  arose  to  go.  And  because  he  was  so  desper- 
ately afraid  he  would  take  her  in  his  arms  and  tell  her 
that  he  could  not  live  without  her,  he  rambled  on 


MISTS,  SUNSHINE,  AND  CLOUDS     271 

very  gayly  about  his  yachting  cruise  with  the  Ben- 
tons.  And  because  Sister  Sue  was  so  desperately 
afraid  she  would  show  him  how  she  longed  to  put  her 
head  on  his  shoulder  and  be  petted  and  comforted, 
she  gave  little  hard,  short  laughs  and  said  she  was 
so  glad  he  'd  had  such  a  lovely  time  —  and  were  the 
Bentons  all  well,  especially  the  charming  daughter 
who  sang  and  the  other  one  who  painted? 

Then  they  shook  hands  and  the  outer  door  banged. 
On  one  side  of  it  Donald  Kendall  strode  down  the 
steps  with  a  choking  sound  in  his  throat  that  might 
have  passed  for  a  cough.  On  the  other  side  Sister  Sue 
threw  herself  into  the  big  chair  with  a  sound  in  her 
throat  that  would  never  have  been  mistaken  for  any- 
thing in  the  world  but  what  it  was  —  a  great,  big  sob. 

It  was  that  night  that  the  real  beginning  of  the  end 
came  with  John  Gilmore.  He  had  a  bad  sinking  spell, 
and  when  he  came  out  of  it  he  was  feebler  than  ever 
in  mind  and  body,  though  his  sufferings  seemed  less. 
A  nurse  had  to  be  sent  for,  and  her  coming  disturbed 
him  not  at  all.  Yet  he  lingered,  with  the  strangely 
tenacious  hold  on  life  that  the  frailest  of  invalids 
sometimes  show,  through  October  and  November 
and  into  December,  going  peacefully  to  sleep  at  last 
just  before  the  New  Year. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  REVOLT 

ONLY  Gordon  came  to  the  funeral.  Mabel  was  sick  at 
home  and  May  telegraphed  that  neither  Martin  nor 
herself  would  be  able  to  come,  explaining  by  letter 
that  Martia  had  too  heavy  a  cold  to  risk  going  and 
that  she  could  n't  think  of  such  a  thing  as  going  all 
by  herself  in  the  winter  in  all  that  snow.  They  sent 
a  very  beautiful  wreath,  however. 

When  it  was  all  over  and  Gordon  and  Sister  Sue  sat 
alone  in  the  living-room  with  the  heavy  scent  of  roses 
bringing  back  the  scene  of  the  morning,  Gordon 
cleared  his  throat  a  little  self-consciously. 

"  Well,  Sister  Sue,  this  will  mean  a  change,  of 
course,  for  you.  You  won't  want  to  stay  here  alone, 
surely." 

"  No.  Oh,  no.  I  should  n't  want  to  stay  here 
alone."  Sister  Sue  repeated  the  words  a  little  me- 
chanically. 

"Well,  you  know,  of  course,  that  our  latchstring  is 
always  out.  We  'd  be  very  glad  to  have  you  come  to 
live  with  us." 

"Thank  you  —  but- 

"O\  no  'buts'  now.  Don't  go  to  feeling  sensitive, 
my  dear,"  interrupted  Gordon,  a  trifle  patronizingly. 
"You  won't  be  a  bit  in  the  way,  so  don't  feel  that 
you  '11  be  a  burden.  On  the  contrary,  you  '11  be  a  real 
help,  and  you'll  find  plenty  to  do,  I'll  warrant,  so 


THE  REVOLT  273 

that  you'll  be  paying  for  your  board  and  keep  all 
right,"  he  laughed.  "Grocery  clerks  with  my  pay 
can't  afford  maids,  you  know,  and  Mabel  is  so  poorly, 
and  has  so  much  to  do,  what  with  the  baby  and  all. 
Oh,  you  '11  find  plenty  to  do  all  right.  Just  remember 
that  we  '11  be  glad  to  have  you,  that 's  all  —  glad  to 
have  you.  And  now  I  must  go  if  I  'm  going  to  catch 
that  train,"  he  finished,  rising  to  his  feet. 

Sister  Sue  smiled  faintly  and  thanked  him  for  his 
invitation  and  said  he  was  very  kind.  But  not  until 
after  Gordon  was  in  the  train  on  his  way  home  did  he 
suddenly  remember  that  Sister  Sue  had  not  told  him 
whether  she  would  accept  his  offer  of  a  home  or  not. 

Two  days  after  the  funeral  came  a  letter  from  May. 
It  was  a  very  cordial  letter,  even  a  loving  one.  May 
wrote,  she  said,  to  assure  her  dear  sister  Sue  that  she 
would  be  most  welcome  to  a  home  with  them.  And 
she  said  that  Sister  Sue  need  not  worry  at  all  about 
being  under  obligations  nor  feel  as  if  she  was  accepting 
charity.  That  it  would  n't  be  so  at  all.  They  really 
needed  her.  She  was  such  a  splendid  nurse  that  she 
would  be  a  valuable  addition  to  the  family.  And  with 
the  new  baby  coming  in  June  her  presence  would  be 
really  a  great  comfort  and  help.  Therefore,  she  need 
feel  no  hesitation  on  that  score. 

"So,  now,  come  right  along,"  she  finished,  signing 
herself  as  "Your  affectionate  and  loving  sister  J£ay." 

For  three  days  after  this  letter  came,  Sister  Sue 
still  went  from  room  to  room  sorting,  arranging,  put- 
ting in  order,  doing  the  innumerable  tasks  that  must 
always  be  done  whenever  one  among  us  lays  down 


274  SISTER  SUE 

her  work  for  the  last  time.  On  the  fourth  day  she 
went  into  Mrs.  Preston's  kitchen,  where  the  old  lady 
sat  by  the  window  in  the  sun.  Wearily  Sister  Sue 
dropped  into  a  chair. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Preston,  I  —  I've  decided,"  she  began, 
flushing  a  little. 

"About—" 

"What  to  do.  I'm  —  going.  I've  got  to  go,  Mrs. 
Preston.  You  don't  know,  but  all  these  days  — 
since  —  since  Father  went  —  I  Ve  been  fighting  a 
battle." 

"  Yes,  my  dear."  There  was  just  enough  but  not  too 
much  interest  in  the  voice  of  the  little  shrewd  old  lady. 

"They  want  me.  Gordon  wants  me,  and  May 
wants  me.  They  say  I  need  n't  feel  I'm  a  burden, 
nor  that  it's  charity  to  give  me  a  home." 

The  little  old  woman  gave  an  indignant  sniff,  but 
Sister  Sue  went  on  without  seeming  to  notice  it. 

"  They  say  I  can  do  enough,  plenty  enough,  for  my 
board  and  keep." 

The  old  lady  sniffed  again,  but  Sister  Sue  still  kept 
on  unheeding. 

"And  it's  true,  I  can  do  enough.  I  know  I  can. 
I  'm  really  needed  in  both  places,  and  that 's  the  worst 
of  it.  I  know  I'm  needed,  but  —  I'm  going  to  run 
away." 

She  paused,  but  only  for  breath. 

"Mrs.  Preston,  I've  got  to  run  away.  I  know  I'm 
a  good  cook  and  a  good  nurse  and  a  good  manager 
and  a  good  seamstress,  and  I  know  I  could  help  out 
a  lot  in  either  family.  But  I'm  tired  of  helping  out. 


THE  REVOLT  275 

That  sounds  dreadful,  I  know.  But  it's  the  truth.  I'm 
tired  of  helping  out !  The  other  day  I  read  of  a  little 
girl  who  was  asked  what  she  was  going  to  be  when  she 
grew  up,  and  she  answered,  'I'm  going  to  be  myself.' 
Mrs.  Preston,  that's  what  I  want  to  be.  I  want  to  be 
myself.  And  I  never  have  been.  All  my  life  I've  been 
only  Sister  Sue.  I  now  want  the  biggest  apple  and 
the  biggest  piece  of  cake,  and  I  don't  want  to  tie  any- 
body's shoestrings  but  my  own  —  for  a  while.  Oh, 
I  know  that  sounds  selfish  and  horrid,  and  you  don't 
know  what  I  mean,  anyway.  But  I  can't  help  it. 
I  am  selfish  and  horrid  to-day.  Mrs.  Preston,  I'm 
nearly  twenty-seven  years  old  now.  Am  I  selfish  and 
horrid  to  want  to  be  —  be  myself  for  a  little  while?" 

"My  land's  sakes,  child!  No!"  emphasized  the 
old  woman  vigorously.  "You're  just  right!" 

"Thanks.  That  helps  a  lot,"  sighed  the  girl,  "even 
if  I  do  know  it's  not  so.  You  see,  I've  made  up  my 
mind  I'm  not  going  to  May's  or  Gordon's,  though 
I'm  going  to  Boston.  I'm  going  to  Signer  Bartoni's 
and  study  again.  I'm  going  to  try  to  be  what  I've 
longed  all  my  life  to  be  —  a  concert  pianist.  You 
don't  know,  Mrs.  Preston,  how  hungry  I  am  for 
music,  real  music.  And  I'm  going  to  hear,  oh,  such 
a  lot  of  it  when  I  get  to  Boston.  And  I'll  teach,  of 
course,  after  a  while.  I  '11  have  to  for  the  money.  But 
I  've  got  enough  to  start  with,  and  there  '11  be  a  little 
more,  I  suppose,  from  the  estate.  Mr.  Loring's  at- 
tending to  that,  of  course.  And  we're  going  to  keep 
the  old  place  in  the  family,  Mrs.  Preston,  so  don't 
worry  about  having  to  move." 


276  SISTER  SUE 

"That's  good;  I'm  glad,"  breathed  the  old  woman 
fervently.  "When  are  you  going?" 

"Next  week.  Monday  morning.  I'm  going  the 
first  minute  I  can  get  away.  I've  got  to  have  some 
things  to  wear,  of  course.  I'll  get  some  here,  but  I'll 
get  more  in  Boston.  Boston !  Oh,  Mrs.  Preston,  you 
don't  know  what  just  the  sound  of  that  word  means 
to  me!" 

"Don't  I?" 

"You  can't!  Nobody  can!  And  to  think  that  I'm 
going  just  next  Monday !  And  so  I  shall  write  to  May 
and  Gordon,  but  I  shan't  write  till  Saturday.  I 
don't  want  to  be  here  when  they  answer.  I  want  to  be 
already  gone.  I  shall  tell  them  to  address  me  in  Bos- 
ton, care  of  Mr.  Loring.  I  don't  know  where  I  '11  be  in 
Boston.  I  'm  going  first  to  Mr.  Loring's,  but  I  shan't 
stay  there.  I  want  to  get  away  from  here,  anyway,  as 
soon  as  I  can.  I  see  Father  everywhere  —  in  the  aw- 
ful way  he's  been  the  past  few  years.  I'm  hoping 
down  to  Boston  to  get  my  real  Father  back  in  my 
memory,  the  one  I  used  to  know.  That's  another 
reason  why  I'm  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  there,  get 
there!"  she  cried,  rising  to  her  feet  and  stretching  out 
her  arms  in  an  abandonment  of  longing. 

A  moment  later  Mrs.  Preston  found  herself  alone. 

Sister  Sue  wrote  her  letters  on  Saturday,  and  on 
Monday  she  left  for  Boston  just  as  she  had  planned. 

On  Tuesday  Mrs.  Preston  was  confronted  by  a 
wild-eyed  young  woman  and  a  scarcely  less  wild- 
eyed  young  man.  Mrs.  Martin  Kent  had  evidently 
found  the  snow  and  the  winter  and  the  trip  all  alone 


THE  REVOLT  277 

no  obstruction  whatever  to  her  coming  to  Gilmore- 
ville  —  this  time.  She  and  her  brother  had  met  at 
the  station  and  had  gone  to  the  house  together.  In- 
dignantly, then,  they  had  accosted  Mrs.  Preston  with 
the  demand: 

"Where  is  my  sister?" 

A  sudden  gleam  leaped  to  the  eyes  of  the  little  old 
lady,  though  at  the  same  time  a  quiet  smile  came  to 
her  lips.  For  reasons  of  her  own  Mrs.  Preston  pre- 
ferred not  to  antagonize  the  pair  before  her  just  yet. 
There  were  certain  things  that  she  wished  to  say  to 
them  before  they  left. 

"Miss  Gilmore?  Why,  she  went  to  Boston  just 
yesterday.  What  a  pity,  and  you  just  missed  her! 
Come  in  and  sit  down." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  interrupted  Mrs.  May  hur- 
riedly, dropping  herself  into  the  offered  chair  with 
plain  reluctance.  "We  knew  she  was  going,  but  not 
so  soon  —  We  came  up  to  —  to  stop  her." 

"Yes,  to  stop  her,"  echoed  the  young  man  nerv- 
ously, as  he  also  took  a  seat. 

"Stop  her?"  This  time  it  was  a  question  from  the 
little  old  lady,  and  again  the  peculiar  gleam  leaped  to 
her  eyes. 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  two  voices.  And  then  the 
young  woman  added:  "It  was  so  absurd,  her  starting 
off  like  this  all  alone  to  Boston !  Why,  we  wrote  her 
to  come  to  us  —  to  live  with  us.  We  offered  her  a 
home.  We  both  did." 

"A  home!"  The  word  had  caused  the  gleam  to 
leap  into  flame  now.  "Yes,  and  what  kind  of  a  home 


278  SISTER  SUE 

would  it  be?"  demanded  the  little  old  woman,  sitting 
suddenly  erect.  "  What  kind  of  a  home  would  it  be?  " 

Then,  before  either  of  the  astonished  and  bewil- 
dered young  people  sitting  there  could  speak,  she 
went  on  to  answer  her  own  question.  And  right  loy- 
ally she  answered  it.  In  emphatic,  but  very  plainly- 
to-be-understood  English  she  told  just  what  kind  of 
a  home  it  would  be,  with  Sister  Sue  at  the  beck  and 
call  of  every  one  in  it,  with  no  life  or  will  or  wish  of 
her  own.  She  drew  a  picture  of  what  Sister  Sue's  life 
had  been  thus  far,  and  it  was  a  very  vivid  picture. 

Cleverly,  from  what  she  had  heard  and  seen  and 
known  and  guessed,  she  put  together  and  built  a  very 
good  mosaic  of  Sister  Sue's  daily  living  from  the  time 
her  mother  had  died.  And  she  pictured,  too,  the  life 
Sister  Sue  had  wanted  to  live,  and  so  potent  were  her 
words  that  they  themselves  could  see  their  sister  Sue 
bowing  her  thanks  to  the  applauding  multitudes  who 
acclaimed  her  the  world's  greatest  pianist.  This  little 
old  woman  made  them  see  then  what  Sister  Sue  had 
given  up  all  these  years,  from  the  larger  apple  to  the 
larger  life,  and  how  she  had  given  it  up  for  them. 
They  had  gone  away  to  school,  to  camp,  and  to  pay 
visits.  They  had  married  and  left  home.  They  had 
gone  and  come  as  they  pleased.  She  had  stayed. 
And  now  when  the  chance  had  come,  and  she  had 
snatched  at  the  years  remaining  to  her,  hoping  still  to 
be  "herself"  yet  once  before  she  died,  what  had  they 
done? 

"Here  ye  be  —  the  both  of  ye,"  accused  the  old 
woman  severely,  "grudgin'  her  the  few  minutes  she's 


THE  REVOLT  279 

got  left,  an'  teasin'  her  ter  keep  on  bein'  Sister  Sue  till 
the  end  of  her  days  jest  so's  ye  can  keep  on  havin' 
that  biggest  apple  ter  the  last." 

Mrs.  Martin  Kent  gave  an  inarticulate  gasp;  her 
brother  said  a  short  word  under  his  breath.  But  that 
the  irate  little  old  woman  had  found  a  chord  some- 
where within  them  that  vibrated  to  her  appeal  was 
evident,  for  chokingly  then  the  young  woman  ques- 
tioned : 

"But  what  are  we  to  do?" 

"Do?  Ye  can  go  home.  An'  when  yer  sister  Sue 
writes  she  has  played  a  tune  or  seen  a  show  or  met 
somebody  she  used  ter  know,  or  done  anything  else 
she  wants  ter  do,  tell  her  ye  're  glad  an'  ye  hope  she  '11 
do  it  ag'in,  an'  don't  ye  say  one  word  about  baby's 
croup  or  yer  own  cold  or  yer  husband's  terrible  sore 
toe,  or  anything  else  that  would  make  her  imagine, 
maybe,  she  ought  ter  be  there  ter  take  care  of  it. 
Just  let  her  be  her  own  self  for  once  an'  tell  her  ye  're 
glad  she  can  be.  An'  ter-night,  on  yer  knees,  thank 
the  good  Lord  that  you  Ve  got  a  sister  Sue. 

"Oh!  Ye  ain't  the  only  one.  There's  others,  lots 
of  'em,  right  in  this  town,  an'  other  towns,  too,  I 
s'pose.  There's  any  amount  of  Sister  Sues,  always 
stayin'  home  themselves  an'  sendin'  everybody  else 
off ;  always  givin'  up  what  they  want  fer  what  some- 
body else  don't  want;  always  takin'  a  back  seat  so's 
everybody  else  can  have  the  front;  always  stayin'  in 
the  kitchin  an'  peelin'  pertaters  for  somebody  else 
ter  eat.  Yer  own  Sister  Sue  said  she  was  doin'  that 
last  herself;  I  heard  her;  so  ye  can  see  how  she  felt. 


280  SISTER  SUE 

An'  they  ain't  appreciated.  They  never  be.  Just 
'cause  they  don't  stand  out  in  front  an'  wave  a  flag 
when  the  percession  goes  by,  they  ain't  noticed.  Ten 
ter  one  they're  in  the  kitchin  that  minute  fryin' 
doughnuts  for  that  same  percession  ter  eat  when  they 
git  through  marchin'.  Though,  when  they  git  Over 
There,  they'll  be  appreciated.  What '11  ye  bet  their 
crowns  won't  be  so  bright  with  stars  it'll  make  one 
blind  just  ter  look  at  'em? 

"Oh!  I  know  I'm  talkin' —  I'm  talkin'  a  lot. 
But  I  feel  a  lot,  an'  if  I  talked  all  night  I  could  n't 
half  finish  tellin'  ye  what  I  feel.  But  I'm  just  tryin' 
ter  tell  ye  that 't  ain't  always  the  folks  that  goes  off 
an'  writes  books  an'  plays  the  fiddle  an'  sings  in  the 
opery  that  does  the  most  good  fer  their  towns.  It's 
jest  as  apt  —  an'  a  little  more  so  —  ter  be  the  Sister 
Sues  that  stay  at  home  an'  play  in  Sunday-School  an' 
prayer-meetin's  an'  gittin'  the  boys  an'  girls  together 
an'  givin'  'em  sings  an'  candy-pulls  an'  keeps  'em  off 
the  streets.  But  nobody  ever  pays  ter  see  'em  or 
meets  'em  with  bands  playin'  at  the  railroad  station. 
An'  that's  why  I'm  tryin'  ter  tell  ye  that  I  hope 
sometime  you'll  appreciate  the  Sister  Sue  you've 
got.  There!  I  —  I  guess  I've  said  enough." 

Mrs.  Martin  Kent  wiped  her  eyes  openly.    "I- 
I  hope  what  you've  said  will  —  will  do  me  some 
good,"  she  stammered. 

Gordon  went  over  to  the  window  and,  looking  out, 
muttered:  "I've  been  a  blamed  idiot.' 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  LIFE  WORTH  WHILE 

ALL  the  way  to  Boston  Sister  Sue  caught  herself 
looking  furtively  over  her  shoulder.  She  could  not 
get  rid  of  the  idea  that  she  was  running  away,  and 
that  she  would  be  followed  and  taken  back  home, 
like  a  naughty  child.  Before  her  eyes  always  was, 
not  the  letters  from  her  brother  and  sister,  but  the 
fact  behind  the  letters,  that  she  could  be  and  would 
be  a  real  benefit  to  either  family  if  she  were  to  accept 
their  offer  —  of  a  home.  Already  she  had  brought 
about  a  wondrous  improvement  in  Gordon's  wife; 
she  knew  that;  and  she  knew,  too,  that  there  was  a 
chance  for  her  to  do  a  great  deal  more  by  the  quiet 
influence  of  her  own  presence.  And  as  for  real, 
practical  aid  in  the  way  of  housework  and  nursing, 
there  was  no  limit  to  the  service  she  might  be  in  that 
line  to  both  families.  It  needed  no  imagination  to 
picture  herself  being,  in  their  homes,  a  self-sacrificing, 
long-suffering  Sister  Sue  for  the  rest  of  her  days.  Un- 
fortunately, however,  there  was  still  another  home 
she  pictured,  and  in  which,  with  distressingly  grow- 
ing frequency,  she  was  picturing  herself  —  her  own 
home;  her  own  home  where  it  would  really  be  this 
time  "all  for  love  and  the  world  well  lost."  This 
picture,  though,  was  one  that  always  came  unbidden, 
and  which  was,  if  possible,  put  to  rout  at  once  with  a 
scornful:  "For  shame!  And  he  dead  in  love  with  a 


282  SISTER  SUE 

Beth  who  sings  or  a  Helen  who  paints!  And  you 
knowing  it  all  the  time!"  Determinedly,  then,  al- 
ways Sister  Sue  would  bring  to  mind  that  other  pic- 
ture, the  picture  which  for  so  many  years  had  been 
her  star  of  promise  —  the  picture  of  herself  holding 
enthralled  by  the  ends  of  her  fingers  the  vast  multi- 
tudes who  had  come  to  hear  her  play.  And  she  told 
herself  that  now  —  now  at  last  —  she  had  her  chance ! 
And  so  she  began  to  lay  her  plans.  Plans  in  which 
there  was  no  room  for  a  Mabel  who  needed  polishing, 
or  a  May  who  needed  nursing,  or  yet  a  Donald  Ken- 
dall who  did  not  need  loving  —  but  was  loved  just  the 
same. 

Arrived  in  Boston,  however,  all  pictures  vanished. 
In  Sister  Sue's  nostrils  was  the  sooty  smell  of  the  en- 
gine smoke  —  to  her  a  veritable  perfume  of  Araby. 
In  Sister  Sue's  eyes  were  the  shifting  throngs  of 
moving  people  • —  to  her  a  veritable  kaleidoscope  of 
charm  and  color.  In  Sister  Sue's  ears  was  the  new 
yet  ever  familiar  rush  and  roar  of  a  great  city  —  a 
veritable  song  of  freedom  to  the  long-restrained  little 
woman  who  seemed  to  herself  to  be  walking  on  air 
instead  of  on  the  somewhat  dirty  floor  of  a  huge  rail- 
road station. 

In  the  waiting-room  she  found  Mr.  Loring  watch- 
ing for  her;  and  in  the  Lorings'  beautiful  home  that 
night  she  slept  the  sleep  of  a  tired  child.  For  nearly  a 
week  she  "just  played  and  rested,"  as  she  termed  it 
to  Mrs.  Loring.  Begging  to  be  left  quite  alone  to  her 
own  devices,  she  foraged  in  the  libraries  and  mu- 
seums; fed  her  longing  soul  on  concerts  and  plays; 


THE  LIFE  WORTH  WHILE  283 

and  then  she  would  go  home  to  a  good  book,  a  box  of 
chocolates,  and  a  luxurious  couch  with  the  lights  just 
right. 

And  so,  rested,  refreshed,  and  fairly  tingling  with 
the  joy  of  living,  she  went  to  see  Signer  Bartoni. 

He  was  busy  with  a  pupil,  said  the  trim  little  maid 
ushering  her  into  the  old,  familiar  reception-room. 
Would  she  please  wait?  It  would  not  be  for  long. 
Sister  Sue  drew  a  long  breath  then  —  and  sat  down. 
She  was  glad  to  wait.  Perhaps  her  heart  would 
not  beat  so  fast  nor  her  hands  tremble  quite  so 
much  after  ten  minutes  of  quiet  rest  in  the  dear  old 
room. 

Slipping  off  her  coat  and  gloves,  she  got  her  music 
in  readiness.  On  top  was  the  same  Liszt  concerto  she 
had  played  for  him  that  memorable  day  years  before 
when  he  had  set  the  match  to  the  gunpowder  of  her 
ambition.  Underneath  was  a  Beethoven  sonata,  a 
lyric  from  Schumann,  something  from  Chopin,  and 
several  romantic  and  emotional  little  classics  she  had 
played  for  him  in  those  old  days,  winning  from  him 
his  "Gr-rand!"  "Splend-eed,  Mees  Gilmore!" 

From  behind  the  closed  door  leading  to  the  rear 
drawing-room  came  the  sound  of  a  Chopin  nocturne, 
played  rather  indifferently  and  with  frequent  inter- 
ruptions in  Signer  Bartoni's  high-pitched,  staccato 
voice.  It  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and  the  door  opened 
to  admit  Signer  Bartoni  and  a  very  pretty  young 
girl.  He  came  forward  at  once  with  outstretched 
hands. 

"Mees  Gilmore!    It  is  Mees  Gilmore!"  he  ex- 


284  SISTER  SUE 

claimed.  "I  am  delighted,  delighted!"  He  took  both 
her  hands  in  his,  and  beamed  upon  her  with  his  little 
twinkling  eyes. 

Sister  Sue  laughed  and  blushed  and  drew  in  her 
breath  with  an  ecstatic  little  catch.  Like  a  cloak,  then, 
the  intervening  years  fell  away  and  left  her  in  her 
own  eyes  the  girl  of  twenty. 

"I  have  come,  yes  —  to  learn  to  be  the  great 
artiste,"  she  breathed. 

Briefly,  then,  she  told  of  her  past  few  years  and  of 
her  chance  now  to  be  herself.  "And  so,  may  I  play 
to  you?  "  she  finished. 

He  said:  "Yes,  yes.  By  all  means!"  There  was  a 
little  time  now,  but  not  much  before  the  next  pupil. 
But  he  would  take  time.  Hear  her  play?  Indeed,  he 
would !  And  he  led  the  way  to  the  rear  room,  closing 
the  door  after  them. 

"You  see  I  —  I  want  to  know  what  —  what  to 
do,"  stammered  Sister  Sue,  a  little  breathlessly  as 
she  arranged  the  music.  * '  I  want  to  know  —  whether 
you  want  me  to  stay  with  you  —  or  go  to  some  one 
else." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  nodded  the  man. 

Then  Sister  Sue  began  to  play.  She  played  the 
scherzo  from  the  concerto,  a  Liszt  rhapsody,  a  little  of 
Beethoven,  a  bit  of  Chopin,  then  she  rose  from  the 
piano. 

Signer  Bartoni,  watch  in  hand,  had  given  a  sudden 
exclamation : 

"My  pupil!  It  is  past  time!  Look!"  he  cried. 
"But,  listen.  Can  you  wait?  She  is  the  last  to-day. 


THE  LIFE  WORTH  WHILE  285 

One  little  half-hour  and  she  will  be  gone.  Then  I  talk 
to  you.  You'll  wait?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes!  I  shan't  mind  waiting  a  bit!"  cried 
Sister  Sue,  gathering  up  her  music  and  hurrying  to- 
ward the  door. 

In  the  outer  room  they  found  a  young  woman,  and 
a  very  handsome,  distinguished-looking  older  woman. 
Toward  the  latter  Signer  Bartoni  rushed,  with  out- 
stretched hands,  even  more  excitedly  than  he  had 
toward  Sister  Sue  a  short  time  before. 

He  turned  then  and  presented  Sister  Sue,  and,  at 
the  name,  Sister  Sue  felt  like  pinching  herself  to  make 
sure  she  was  not  asleep  and  dreaming,  for  it  was  the 
name  borne  by  the  greatest  woman  pianist  the  world 
knew. 

"Now,  wait,  please,  you  two,"  begged  the  music- 
master.  "I  want  to  see  you  both.  And  I  am  glad. 
—  You  will  be  companee  for  each  other."  With  that 
he  vanished  in  the  wake  of  his  pupil. 

Sister  Sue  found  herself  alone  then  with  the  GREAT 
ONE.  In  Sister  Sue's  mind  she  was  just  that  —  all 
capitals.  Sister  Sue  had  heard  her  play  once  —  years 
ago.  Since  then  the  great  pianist  had  been  to  Sister 
Sue  the  living  embodiment  of  her  own  dreams.  Hid- 
den away  in  Sister  Sue's  desk  was  a  little  drawer  con- 
taining pictures,  magazine  articles,  newspaper  clip- 
pings, anything  and  everything  —  that  showed  HER 
fame  or  mentioned  HER  name  —  that  could  be  found. 
Over  them  Sister  Sue  had  pored  many  times  till  she 
knew  them  all  by  heart.  And  to  have  before  her  now 
that  wondrous  being  in  the  flesh,  talk  to  her,  hear 


286  SISTEJl  SUE 

her  talk  — !  Even  now  Sister  Sue  could  not  believe 
but  what  she  had  fallen  asleep  over  her  desk  of  treas- 
ures at  home,  and  was  dreaming. 

She  was  very  much  awake,  however.  The  lady 
herself  began  to  talk.  She  spoke  of  Signer  Bartoni, 
his  fine  skill  as  a  teacher,  and  of  her  own  long  friend- 
ship for  him.  Then  she  spoke  of  the  weather  and  the 
snow  in  the  streets,  the  bad  "going,"  of  a  new  book, 
the  latest  play.  Amiably  she  chatted  on,  of  nothing 
in  particular,  her  hands  idly  toying  with  a  letter  she 
held.  A  little  breathlessly  at  intervals,  and  according 
to  the  demands  of  the  conversation,  Sister  Sue  would 
make  polite  responses,  but  when  there  came  a  pause 
she  burst  in,  a  little  incoherently,  and  very  much  as  if 
the  words  were  being  impelled  by  a  hidden  power  that 
could  not  be  controlled : 

"I  can't  —  I  cant  sit  here  and  talk  to  you  like 
this  —  and  not  tell  you,  or  at  least  try  to  tell  you, 
what  you've  been  to  me  all  these  years!" 

"'Been'  to  you,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,  yes!  Oh,  if  I  only  could  tell  you!  I  heard  you 
play  once  —  years  ago  —  and,  oh,  I  loved  it  so ! " 

"Why,  I  —  I  thank  you,  I'm  sure,"  answered  the 
lady,  with  an  uncertain  smile,  evidently  a  little  non- 
plussed at  this  sixteen-year-old-hero- worship  exuber- 
ance suddenly  bursting  from  the  lips  of  the  heretofore 
quiet  little  woman  before  her. 

"You  see,  /  —  /  loved  to  play  even  then,  and  I 
had  dreams  —  oh,  yes,  dreams.  —  But  when  I  heard 
you  —  I  knew.  I  knew  just  what  I  wanted  to  be.  I 
wanted  to  be  a  concert  pianist.  I  wanted  to  hold 


THE  LIFE  WORTH  WHILE  287 

people  as  you  held  them.  I  wanted  to  say  things  at 
the  ends  of  my  fingers  as  you  said  them.  I  wanted  to 
sing  to  them  with  my  fingers  of  the  beautiful,  beauti- 
ful world,  as  I  saw  it.  And  to  think  that  —  that  now 
—  to-day  —  I  should  see  you  and  be  able  to  talk 
to  you  —  !  You,  who  have  done  so  much  —  you, 
who  have  made  your  life,  oh,  so  wonderfully  worth 
while!" 

Unexpectedly  the  great  pianist  turned  with  a  sud- 
den gesture. 

"No,  no!  Don't  say  that  —  don't  say  that!"  she 
cried.  She  was  sitting  erect  in  her  chair,  and  speak- 
ing with  curious  passion.  "You  don't  know  —  you 
don't  understand.  My  life  is  n't  the  worth-while 
one.  —  It 's  the  one  there,  right  there  in  that  letter, 
that's  really  worth  while."  She  held  up  the  letter 
she  had  been  playing  with  —  and  tapped  it  with  the 
forefinger  of  her  other  hand.  Then,  with  a  little  laugh 
that  yet  ended  in  a  sigh,  she  sat  back  in  her  chair,  her 
eyes  on  Sister  Sue's  startled  face.  After  a  moment  she 
went  on  speaking. 

"You  poor  child !  You  don't  know  what  to  make  of 
me,  and  no  wonder.  But  what  you  said  stirred  me 
profoundly.  I'd  just  been  reading  this  letter.  I  re- 
ceived it  at  the  hotel  just  as  I  started  to  come  here, 
and  while  I  was  waiting  for  Signer  Bartoni  I  opened 
it  and  read  it.  It 's  from  a  woman  in  a  little  town  away 
up  in  Vermont.  She  was  a  schoolmate  of  mine.  We 
used  to  talk  and  dream  together  of  what  we  would  be. 
I  was  all  music  —  and  wanted  to  become  a  great 
pianist.  She  had  wonderful  skill  with  the  pencil  and 


288  SISTER  SUE 

paint-brush  —  and  said  she  wanted  to  be  a  great 
artist  some  day." 

"Yes,  yes.  I  understand,"  nodded  Sister  Sue,  her 
eyes  shining. 

"Well,  what  happened?  Do  you  want  to  know? 
Do  you  really  want  to  know?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes.   Please!"  begged  Sister  Sue. 

"Very  well,  then.  I  will  tell  you.  I  went  away  and 
studied.  I  became  what  I  am.  My  friend  —  my  friend 
did  not  go  away.  Just  as  I  left  town  my  friend's 
mother  fell  and  broke  her  hip  and  became  a  lifelong 
cripple.  There  were  younger  children  —  four  of  them. 
And  there  was  not  much  money.  The  father  was  a 
poor  sort,  rather  shiftless,  and  never  could  seem  to 
get  much  ahead.  So  my  friend  (her  name  is  Mary) 
stepped  in  and  'put  her  shoulder  to  the  wheel'  as  she 
expressed  it.  She  said  she  had  to." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know."  Sister  Sue  nodded  her  head 
again.  Her  eyes  were  not  shining  now. 

"Well!  Mary  cooked  and  swept  and  washed  and 
ironed  and  mended,  and  waited  on  her  crippled 
mother  day  in  and  day  out,  year  in  and  year  out. 
She  had  a  lover,  but  she  gave  him  up.  She  could  n't 
leave  home,  she  told  him.  Of  course  she  gave  up  all 
thought  of  painting.  To  learn  to  be  a  great  artist  took 
talent,  time,  money,  and  the  freedom  to  leave  home. 
She  had  none  of  these  but  the  talent,  and  that  was 
only  an  aggravation  —  worse  than  nothing  alone. 
And  so  that  has  been  her  life;  always  listening  to 
other  people's  troubles  —  never  telling  her  own;  al- 
ways carrying  other  people's  burdens  —  never  sharing 


THE  LIFE  WORTH  WHILE  289 

her  own.  Her  mother  died  peacefully  ten  years  ago. 
Her  father  a  year  later.  Two  sisters  are  married,  and 
one  brother  has  been  sent  through  college;  how,  I 
don't  know,  but  I  '11  warrant  Mary  does.  She 's  'Aunt ' 
Mary  now.  Half  a  dozen  nieces  and  nephews  pour 
their  troubles  into  her  ears  and  find  comfort.  As  I 
happen  to  know,  her  sisters  and  one  brother  depend 
utterly  on  her. 

"And  yet  that  woman,  my  friend  Mary,  in  this 
letter  here,  has  the  presumption  to  tell  me  she's  glad 
I  Ve  made  my  life  so  '  worth  while '  —  that  hers  has 
been  'so  barren.": 

She  paused,  but  Sister  Sue  did  not  speak.  The 
girl's  eyes  were  turned  away  as  if  she  were  a  little 
bewildered.  After  a  moment  the  elder  woman  con- 
tinued passionately: 

"Barren!  No  woman  is  living  a  barren  life  who  is 
needed  by  some  one.  My  friend  Mary's  life  was  not 
'barren.'  Somebody  wanted  her,  —  somebody  wanted 
her,  every  moment  of  the  day.  Is  n't  that  worth 
anything  ?  Nobody  wants  me,  except  when  they  want 
to  be  amused  —  perhaps.  Why,  Miss  Gilmore!  My 
friend  Mary  has  made  her  life  something  'worth 
while'  twice  over  what  mine  is." 

"You  really  believe  —  that?"  Sister  Sue  turned 
now  as  she  asked  the  question  —  a  dawning  some- 
thing in  her  eyes  that  was  quite  new. 

"Of  course  I  mean  it!  Why,  child!  Look  at  what 
she  has  done !  A  crippled  mother  loved  and  cared  for 
till  the  end.  A  father  saved  from  drink  —  and  I  hap- 
pen to  know  he  was  saved.  A  family  of  harum-scarum 


290  SISTER  SUE 

boys  and  girls  kept  together  and  reared  to  be  honest, 
self-respecting  members  of  society;  and  now  their 
children  being  helped  into  the  same  path.  A  work 
done  that  nobody  else  in  the  world  could  have  done 
under  the  circumstances.  True !  She  did  n't  paint 
the  pictures  she  had  wanted  to  paint.  But  the  pic- 
tures she  did  paint  are  living  pictures  —  not  dead 
canvases  hung  upon  a  wall  for  critics  to  wrangle  and 
squabble  over  about  perspectives  and  colorings  and 
technique !  And,  perhaps  you  '11  say  it  was  a  sacrifice, 
but  fl  would  prefer  the  word  opportunity  —  in  this 
case." 

"Opportunity?"  Sister  Sue's  doubtful  repetition 
of  the  word  made  it  a  question. 

"Yes.  Opportunity  to  make  her  life  really  'worth 
while,'"  emphasized  the  lady  with  a  meaning  smile. 
"Of  course,  if  there  had  been  no  crippled  mother,  or 
weak-kneed  father,  or  harum-scarum  children  who 
needed  her,  why,  then  let  her  paint  her  pictures.  But 
when  she  calls  her  life  *  barren '  —  well,  I  'm  going  to 
write  to  my  friend  Mary  and  see  if  I  can  convince  her 
of  her  blindness  of  being  needed!" 

"Needed  —  needed ! "  Sister  Sue  echoed  the  words 
just  above  her  breath. 

"The  very  greatest  blessing  there  is,  as  we  who  are 
not  needed  know  only  too  well.  If  some  one  needs 
you,  you  are  happy,  indeed.  But  I  am  not  needed  — 
now.  Once  I  had  duties,  but  I  left  them  for  the  prize 
of  greatness,  and  the  prize  of  greatness  has  burned  to 
ashes  in  my  hands."  And  the  great  pianist  bowed  her 
head  in  her  hands  and  sobbed. 


THE  LIFE  WORTH  WHILE  291 

"Needed!"  It  was  the  triumphant  cry  of  one  who 
has  made  a  sudden  joyous  decision.  Sister  Sue  was 
on  her  feet,  her  face  alight. 

"Will  you  —  would  you  —  please  tell  Signor  Bar- 
toni  that  —  that  I  suddenly  found  I  must  change 
my  plans?  Tell  him  I  will  write  and  explain.  I  —  I 
don't  want  to  talk  to  him  just  now.  —  Please?"  And 
Sister  Sue  was  gone. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  music-master  came  out  from 
the  inner  room  with  his  pupil. 

"Mees  —  Gilmore?  She  has  gone?  "  He  questioned 
in  surprise  as  he  turned  back  into  the  room  after  bow- 
ing his  pupil  through  the  outer  door. 

"Yes.  She  left  a  message  for  you.  She  said  to  tell 
you  that  suddenly  she  found  she  must  change  her 
plans.  She  will  write  and  explain.  She  did  n't  want 
to  stop  to  talk  now." 

"Good!"  The  Signor  threw  up  both  hands  and 
spoke  with  surprising  vehemence.  "I  did  not  want  to 
talk  —  also !  I  am  glad  she  is  gone !  I  have  been 
dreading  all  thees  time  to  come  back  —  into  thees 
room  — to  see  her." 

With  a  gesture  of  despair  he  rolled  his  eyes  heaven- 
ward. Then,  at  his  visitor's  obvious  look  of  amaze- 
ment, he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  explained. 

"You  are  surprised.  I  spoke  plain  —  too  plain, 
maybe.  But  I  was  much  distressed.  Mees  Gilmore 
—  she  play  beautifully  —  once,  but  not  now.  Her 
touch  —  her  fire  —  her  poise,  all  gone.  She  has  been 
too  tired  —  too  busy  to  practice  —  all  these  years, 
five,  six  —  yes,  six  —  I  think  it  is.  Her  father's  busi- 


292  SISTER  SUE 

ness  —  it  —  what  do  you  call  it  —  went  smash. 
And  his  brain  —  that  went  smash,  too,  but  all  these 
years  he  lives.  He  lives  —  and  Mees  Gilmore  —  she 
do  everything  —  cook,  nurse,  teach  music,  take  care 
of  everything,  everybody.  —  Of  course  she  could  not 
practice  —  that  could  not  be  expected.  But  to-day 
—  she  comes.  Her  father  is  dead,  her  family  married. 
She  is  free  —  and  she  thinks  again  to  step  right  in, 
where  she  was  years  ago,  and  become  now  the  great 
arteest  —  as  she  could  once  have  been." 

"Oh  — !"  breathed  the  lady,  a  great  light  of  under- 
standing on  her  face.  "I  think  I  begin  to  see." 

"So  —  she  comes  and  plays  to  me.  And  I  —  I 
cannot  tell  her  the  truth  —  Not  with  her  shining 
eyes  begging  me,  beseeching  me  —  But  it  would  be  a 
pitee  and  a  cr-rime  to  let  her  go  on  and  on,  thinking 
one  day  she  will  arrive  —  She  will  never  arrive 
now  —  It  is  too  late.  But  I  cannot  tell  her  —  I  can- 
not." 

"You  won't  have  to,"  smiled  the  woman  who  had 
told  Sister  Sue  that  the  greatest  blessing  in  all  the 
world  was  to  be  needed  by  some  one.  "You  won't  have 
to;  I'm  sure  you  won't.  She  will  write  to  you,  and 
she  will  tell  you  that  she  has  changed  her  mind.  She 
does  not  want  to  be  the  great  pianist." 

"Thank  Heaven !  Let  us  hope  you  speak  the  truth," 
breathed  the  music-master  fervently. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  OPPORTUNITY 

THE  Lorings  were  very  much  astonished  to  have 
Sister  Sue  tell  them  she  was  going  back  to  Gilmore- 
ville  right  away.  They  were  more  astonished  when 
she  told  them  that  she  had  decided,  after  all,  not  to  go 
on  with  her  music  just  at  present. 

Mr.  Loring  only  smiled  and  said  a  polite  something 
that  meant  nothing,  and  let  the  matter  pass.  But 
Mrs.  Loring  was  not  so  easily  satisfied.  She  seized 
the  first  opportunity,  when  they  were  alone  together, 
to  induce  the  girl  to  tell  her  more  about  it. 

"Did  that  horrid  man  say  bad  things  to  you?"  she 
began. 

"Why,  no  indeed !  Not  a  thing,"  laughed  Sister  Sue. 

"But  you  played  to  him?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes.  And  he  was  perfectly  lovely  to  me 
and  seemed  so  interested!  But  another  pupil  had  al- 
ready come  and  so  he  asked  me  to  wait  till  after  she 
had  gone.  Then  he  would  talk  to  me.  But  I  did  n't 
wait." 

"You  did  n't  wait?" 

"Not  till  he  came  out,  no.  I  —  I  got  to  thinking. 
May  is  going  to  need  me  very  much  this  summer.  And 
Gordon,  too,  really  needs  me.  I  think  I  '11  go  to  them." 

"And  keep  on  sacrificing  yourself!  Oh,  yes,  of 
course!"  commented  Mrs.  Loring  with  rising  indigna- 
tion. 


294  SISTER  SUE 

Sister  Sue  laughed  again.  Then  suddenly  her  eyes 
grew  luminous.  A  deeper  color  came  to  her  face. 

"Somebody  once,  that  I  heard,  called  it  oppor- 
tunity, not  sacrifice.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be 
lovely  if  we  could  think  of  it  like  that,  Mrs.  Loring?" 
she  asked,  a  little  shyly. 

"Opportunity'!  Humph!"  fumed  Mrs.  Loring, 
although  plainly  softening  against  her  will.  "Well, 
you've  found  your  'opportunity,'  all  right!" 

Sister  Sue  only  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  But 
there  was  still  in  her  eyes  the  wondrous  glow  as  she 
hurried  away  to  do  her  packing. 

Just  as  Sister  Sue  was  leaving  the  house  the  next 
morning  the  mail  came  and  there  were  two  letters 
for  her.  One  from  May  —  the  other  from  Gordon. 
Slipping  them  unopened  into  her  bag,  she  left  them  to 
be  read  when  she  should  get  all  established  in  her  seat 
on  the  train.  But  though  unread  they  were  not  for- 
gotten. All  the  way  to  the  station  they  lay,  as  if 
lead,  in  her  bag  and  on  her  mind. 

"If  only  they  had  n't  come  to-day!"  she  sighed  to 
herself.  "Oh,  I  hate  so  to  read  them  to-day,  when 
—  after  all  —  I'm  going  back  —  to  them." 

She  knew  what  was  in  them,  of  course.  They 
were  the  first  letters  she  had  received  since  she  had 
written  her  brother  and  sister  declining  to  accept  a 
home  with  them,  and  telling  them  she  was  going  to 
Boston  to  take  up  her  long-neglected  music  again. 
She  could  imagine  just  about  what  each  would  say. 

Gordon's  letter  would  be  short  and  crisp  and  cut- 
ting. His  opinion  would  be  expressed  energetically, 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  295 

and  when  she  had  read  his  letter  there  would  be  no 
doubt  in  her  mind  as  to  his  opinion  of  her  and  her 
"crazy  notion"  as  she  knew  he  would  call  it.  There 
would,  too,  probably  be  a  caustic  statement  to  the 
effect  that  of  course  that  would  n't  count  with  her  any 
more  than  they  themselves,  or  their  wishes,  counted,  or 
the  fact  that  they  had  offered  her  a  home  with  them 
—  the  best  they  had.  This  would  be  Gordon's  letter. 

May's  letter  would  be  longer.  It  would  tell  of  Mar- 
tin's continued  ill-luck  with  "Blixie,"  and  of  Martia's 
fretf ulness  and  exactingness.  It  would  tell  of  her  own 
ill  feelings  and  despondency  and  of  the  extra  amount 
of  hard  work  she  had  to  do  now  that  they  had  moved 
out  of  the  city,  when  really  by  good  rights  she  should 
be  in  bed  with  a  nurse  to  wait  upon  her.  At  the  end, 
perhaps  as  a  P.S.,  she  would  say,  plaintively,  that  she 
was  sure  she  hoped  Sister  Sue  would  have  a  pleasant 
time  enjoying  herself  in  Boston  —  if  she  could  enjoy 
herself  when  all  the  time  she  would  know  that  her 
only  sister  was  simply  pining  away  for  the  want  of  the 
strength  and  comfort  and  courage  that  her  dear  Sister 
Sue's  presence  would  give  her.  This  would  be  May's 
letter.  And  Sister  Sue  wanted  to  read  it  only  a  degree 
less  than  she  wanted  to  read  Gordon's. 

"If  only  they  hadn't  come  to-day!"  she  sighed 
again  and  again  to  herself.  "If  only  I  could  have 
written  to  them  that  I  was  going  to  them,  first  to  one, 
then  to  the  other,  before  their  letters  to  me  came  — 
scolding  and  complaining  and  blaming  me  —  it  would 
have  been  easier.  But  now  — " 

Steeling  herself  for  the  inevitable,  however,  Sister 


296  SISTER  SUE 

Sue  resolutely  took  the  letters  from  her  bag.  Holding 
them  in  her  hands,  she  hesitated.  Should  she  read 
Gordon's,  or  May's,  first?  Did  she  prefer  to  be 
smartly  slapped,  or  to  be  pricked  with  countless  little 
pin-thrusts  first?  After  all,  a  slap  was  benumbing  - 
in  a  way.  It  might  dull  the  hurt  of  the  pricks,  she 
reflected,  as  with  a  little  shrug  she  dropped  May's 
letter  back  into  the  bag  and  slipped  a  hatpin  under 
the  flap  of  the  other  envelope. 

With  a  resigned  sigh  she  took  out  the  letter  and  be- 
gan to  read,  but,  at  the  first  line  after  the  salutation, 
she  suddenly  stiffened  into  astonished  attention. 

DEAR  Sis:  [ran  the  letter.]  Bully  for  you!  I  say.  Go  in 
and  win!  And  here's  the  best  of  luck  to  you!  Telegraph 
me  the  date  of  your  first  concert  and  I  '11  be  there  and  blister 
my  hands  with  the  biggest  clap  the  old  hall  (wherever  it  is) 
ever  heard.  And,  while  I  'm  about  it,  just  let  me  say  that  I 
don't  know  of  any  one  who  deserves  success  more  than  you. 
I'm  not  much  on  letter-writing,  Sis,  and  I  can't  sling  ink 
like  my  esteemed  brother-in-law,  but  I  wish  I  did  know 
how  to  say  how  much  I  appreciate  all  you  Ve  done  for  us  all 
these  years  —  taking  care  of  Father;  taking  care  of  May 
and  me;  taking  care  of  the  home;  taking  care  of  every- 
thing and  anything  but  yourself.  But  I  don't  know  how, 
so  there's  no  use  trying,  I  suppose.  But  for  once  I  wish  I 
could  sling  ink  like  Martin,  then  I  'd  make  you  see  how  I  feel. 
However,  here 's  where  I  hope  you  get  your  innings,  Sister 
Sue!  And  I  hope  you  make  a  home  run!  In  all  of  which 
Mabel  joins  me  —  only  she  says  she  does  n't  know  what  a 
home  run  is.  And,  by  the  way,  Mabel  says  she  wishes  she 
could  thank  you,  too,  for  all  you've  done  for  her,  which, 
she  says,  is  a  whole  lot  and  a  great  deal  more  than  you  '11 
ever  know. 

Your  affectionate  brother  GORDON 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  297 

"Why!  Bless  the  dear  boy's  heart!"  breathed 
Sister  Sue,  trying  to  blink  off  the  tears  before  her 
fellow-travelers  saw  them.  "And  when  I  was  think- 
ing —  I  almost  wish  now  I  'd  saved  him  till  the  last." 

Still  blinking  and  trying  to  swallow  the  lump  in  her 
throat,  Sister  Sue  put  Gordon's  letter  back  into  her 
bag  and  took  out  her  sister  May's.  Again  as  she  be- 
gan to  read  did  she  stiffen  into  astonished  attention. 

MY  DEAR  SISTER:  [May  had  written.]  Your  letter  telling 
us  your  plans  came  duly  to  hand,  and  you  don't  know  how 
glad  I  am  that  you  are  going  to  Boston  to  take  up  your 
beloved  music  again.  And  you  will  succeed;  I  know  you 
will  succeed.  And  we  shall  all  be  so  proud  of  you! 

And  I  am  so  glad  that  after  all  these  years  your  chance 
has  come  at  last.  I  am  afraid  you  have  thought  sometimes 
it  never  would  come,  you  poor  dear.  And  I  am  afraid  you 
have  thought  sometimes  we  were  pretty  selfish  and  thought- 
less, to  let  you  take  all  the  burden  and  care  off  our  shoul- 
ders, for  that's  exactly  what  you  have  done  all  these  years, 
dear  Sister.  I  am  afraid  you  sometimes  thought,  too,  that 
we  did  n't  appreciate  it ;  and  I  know  we  have  n't  half  ap- 
preciated what  you  have  done  for  us  all  that  time.  As  I 
think  of  it  now,  and  look  back  on  it,  I  am  ashamed  to 
think  how  little  I  have  realized  what  a  lot  you  were  giving 
up  for  us  all  the  time.  But  now  that  you  are  really  going 
and  are  to  take  up  your  own  work,  I  guess  we  shall  begin 
to  know  and  understand  and  appreciate,  all  right!  You 
know  you  never  miss  the  water  till  the  well  runs  dry,  and  I 
suppose  we  never  should  have  known  what  a  big  place 
Sister  Sue  filled  in  our  lives  if  she  just  had  n't  walked  out 
and  left  the  big  gaping  hole !  But  we  shall  know  it  now,  all 
right!  And  I  was  thinking  only  the  other  day,  why!  just 
what  you  did  for  Father  was  wonderful !  To  say  nothing  of 
all  the  watchful  care  you  had  of  us!  And  I  do  hope  that 
now  you  can  get  a  little  reward.  And  you  will  get  it  in  your 


£98  SISTER  SUE 

music.  And  to  think  I  had  the  face  to  ask  you  to  come  and 
live  with  me,  and  keep  right  on  doing  for  us,  when  all  the 
time  you  had  only  just  been  waiting  for  a  little  freedom  to 
go  and  live  your  own  life  as  you  wanted  to!  But  I  shan't 
again  —  I  '11  promise.  And  I  am  just  as  glad  as  glad  can 
be  that  you  are  going  to  Boston  and  to  your  beloved  music 
again.  Now  write  and  tell  me  all  about  it  —  and  every- 
thing you  are  doing  —  we  shall  be  so  interested.  And  after 
you  get  all  fixed  I  '11  want  to  run  into  the  city  and  see  how 
you  look.  And  we  wish  you  the  best  of  success  now  and 
always.  Don't  worry  about  us  —  don't  worry  a  bit.  Just 
enjoy  yourself  for  once  —  if  you  can ! 

Always  your  loving  sister 

MAY 

"Why!  what  —  what  can  have  happened  to  them 
both?"  thought  Sister  Sue  as,  with  excited  fingers, 
she  dropped  May's  letter  into  the  bag  with  Gordon's. 
"What  can  have  happened  to  them?"  She  was  still 
trying  to  blink  away  the  tears,  but  her  eyes  behind 
the  tears  were  now  shining  with  a  light  never  in  them 
before. 

It  was  on  that  same  afternoon  that  Donald  Ken- 
dall, in  Gilmoreville,  sharply  rang  the  Gilmores'  front- 
door bell.  A  moment  later  he  stepped  into  the  still 
hall  in  response  to  Mrs.  Preston's  invitation. 

"Come  right  back  into  my  room,  please,  Mr. 
Kendall,"  she  directed  him.  "  There  ain't  none  of  this 
part  of  the  house  open,  ye  know." 

"Miss  Gilmore  is  away,  I  take  it,  then,"  said  the 
man  as  he  sat  down,  with  obvious  impatience,  in  the 
chair  Mrs.  Preston  offered  him. 

"Yes,  sir." 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  299 

"When  did  she  go?  —  if  I  may  ask,"  the  latter 
words  added  as  a  somewhat  ungracious  afterthought. 

"Why,  just  last  week,  Mr.  Kendall.  Monday,  I 
think."  Into  the  old  lady's  eyes  had  crept  a  curious 
twinkle,  not  at  all  the  sort  of  look  one  would  have 
expected  in  response  to  the  unmistakable  irritability 
of  the  questioner. 

"When  is  she  coming  back? "  (There  was  not  even 
the  ungracious  afterthought  this  time.) 

The  old  lady  hesitated.  Then,  as  if  weighing  each 
word,  she  said  slowly: 

"Well,  she  didn't  say  —  when  she  left  —  except 
that  't  would  be  quite  a  while,  probably.  Ye  know 
she  went  down  to  Boston,  to  do  her  music  again." 

"No.   I  did  n't  know,"  snapped  the  man. 

Once  again  into  the  old  lady's  eyes  crept  the  cu- 
rious twinkle,  but  her  voice  was  still  quiet,  non- 
committal. 

"Well,  she  did.  Oh,  they  offered  her  a  home  with 
them,  her  brother  and  sister  — " 

"Did  they?"  cut  in  the  man  sarcastically. 

"Yes."  The  old  lady  was  not  looking  at  him  now. 
She  was  carefully  smoothing  out  a  wrinkle  across 
her  knee.  "They  were  very  kind.  They  said  that 
she  need  n't  feel  beholden  to  'em  at  all  or  call  it 
charity,  that  she  could  do  enough  for  her  board  an' 
keep." 

"Charity!  Board  and  keep!  Good  Heavens!"  ex- 
ploded the  man. 

"Yes,  sir."  Mrs.  Preston's  eyes  were  still  on  the 
wrinkle  she  was  smoothing.  "But,  as  I  said,  she 


300  SISTER  SUE 

did  n't  go  to  them.    She  went  to  Boston  to  do  her 
music." 

"Can  you  blame  her?" 

"N-no.  Perhaps  not.  Still,  if  't  was  ter  marry, 
now,  an'  go  into  a  home  of  her  own  — "  She  let  her 
sentence  hang  unfinished  in  the  air. 

"Miss  Gilmore  is  not  the  marrying  kind."  The 
words  were  uttered  in  a  voice  that  was  a  cross  be- 
tween a  growl  and  a  groan. 

"How  do  ye  know?" 

"Wh-what?"  The  man  turned  sharply.  But  the 
little  old  lady  met  his  eyes  with  serene  unconcern. 
"Why,  I  — I  don't  know." 

"I  thought  as  much." 

Again  the  man  threw  a  sharp  glance  into  the  old 
lady's  face  —  and  again  the  little  old  lady  met  the 
glance  with  serene  unconcern.  The  man  jerked  him- 
self about  in  his  chair. 

"But  I'm  sure  of  it,"  he  frowned.  "I  know  that 
she  has  wanted  to  go  on  with  her  music  —  in  Boston. 
Look  at  her  now.  That 's  where  she 's  gone,  is  n't  it?  " 

"Yes.  She  — went." 

"Well!  There's  the  proof  for  you.  Miss  Gilmore 
does  not  wish  to  marry." 

"Did  ye  ever  ask  her?" 

"Did  I  — "  The  man  stopped,  and  got  to  his  feet 
abruptly,  his  face  dark  with  anger.  But  the  little  old 
lady  was  still  smiling  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"Well,  why  don't  ye?"  she  queried  imperturbably. 
Then,  before  he  could  carry  out  his  very  evident  in- 
tention of  leaving  the  room,  she  said  with  a  brisk 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  301 

change  of  manner:  "Come,  come,  Donald  Kendall. 
Come  back  and  sit  down.  I  've  got  something  ter  say 
ter  you  —  something  ye  want  ter  hear,  too." 

At  the  door  the  man  paused  irresolutely,  his  hand 
on  the  knob. 

"Come,  come!"  reiterated  the  little  old  lady.  "Ye 
don't  mind  an  old  woman  like  me,  an  old  woman  that 
fed  ye  cookies  when  ye  was  six  —  little  cookies  with 
seeds  in  'em.  An'  ye  did  like  them  cookies,  Donald 
Kendall !  Now,  come  back  an'  sit  down." 

With  a  short  laugh  and  a  gesture  of  angry  resigna- 
tion, the  man  turned  and  came  back  to  his  chair. 

"Mrs.  Preston,  you  are  incorrigible.  I  don't  know 
why,  I  am  sure,  that  I  come  back  or  why  I  have 
listened  to  you  even  as  long  as  I  have.  I  've  been  on 
the  point  of  leaving  a  dozen  times  in  the  last  five 
minutes,"  he  finished  crossly. 

"/  know  why  ye  come  back,"  nodded  the  little  old 
lady,  her  shrewd  eyes  on  his  face;  "ye  ain't  the  big 
man  now  —  the  big  fiddler  that  everybody  claps  — 
an'  yells  at.  Ye 're  jes'  the  little  boy  I  used  ter  know, 
an'  ye  're  hopin'  I  've  got  another  cooky  for  ye,  an*  — 
well,  I  have." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Donald  Kendall,  seein*  as  ye  do  love  her,  why 
don't  ye  ask  her  ter  marry  ye?  Oh,  now,  don't  bristle 
up,"  she  smoothed  him  hurriedly,  as  he  started  to 
rise  to  his  feet;  "ye  ain't  goin'  ter  mind  an  old  woman 
like  me." 

He  fell  back  in  his  chair  and  turned  his  head 
away. 


302  SISTER  SUE 

"How  do  you  know  I  —  I  love  her? "  he  asked  in  a 
muffled  voice. 

"My  sakes!  How  do  I  know  ye've  got  a  nose  on 
your  face  or  hair  on  your  head.  As  if  a  man  could 
spend  every  minute  he  had  over  here  playin'  with  a 
pretty  girl  an'  not  love  her!" 

"We  were  —  were  practicing,  Mrs.  Preston."  He 
spoke  with  cold  dignity. 

"Sure  ye  were!  I've  seen  that  kind  of  practicin' 
before." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  irritably. 

"Well!  Well,  suppose  —  I  do,"  he  snapped. 
"What,  then?  She  has  gone  to  Boston,  has  n't  she? 
My  proof  still  holds  good!  As  I  happen  to  know, 
Miss  Gilmore's  one  great  desire  in  life  for  many  years 
has  been  to  go  on  with  her  music.  Well  —  she  is  now 
going  on  with  it.  What  more  proof  do  you  want?" 

With  a  low  chuckle  the  little  old  lady  thrust  her 
hand  into  the  pocket  of  her  apron. 

"I  think  maybe  ye'd  like  —  the  cooky  —  now," 
she  said,  taking  out  a  yellow  envelope  and  handing  it 
to  him. 

"Why  — what— " 

"Read  it.  It  jes' came  this  noon." 

A  minute  later  he  looked  up  with  puzzled  eyes. 

"From  Miss  Gilmore.  But  she  says  —  she  is  com- 
ing back,"  he  stammered. 

"This  afternoon.   Yes." 

"But  why?" 

With  a  funny  little  shrug  the  old  lady  threw  him  a 
sidelong  glance. 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  303 

"She  didn't  say.  An'  I  don't  say  —  either.  / 
don't  know.  But  if  I  was  a  great  big  six-foot  man, 
right  here  on  the  spot  an'  wanted  ter  find  out,  I'd 
— find  out." 

With  a  hearty  laugh  the  man  sprang  quickly  to  his 
feet.  His  face  had  cleared.  He  looked  suddenly  alert 
—  happy  —  sure  of  himself. 

"Granny  Preston,  you're  a  wonder!  I  will  find 
out !  You  need  n't  tell  her,  but  —  I  '11  be  over  this 
evening  to  —  to  'practice."1 

"That's  the  talk!  It'll  be  all  warm  in  there  —  in 
her  room.  My  husband 's  goin'  ter  start  the  furnace 
right  away.  Good-bye,  an'  good  luck  ter  ye." 

"Thanks!"  The  man  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
Then  he  opened  it  again  to  poke  in  his  head  boyishly. 

"Oh  —  I  say!  I'm  much  obliged,  Granny  Preston, 
for  the  —  cooky,"  he  laughed.  Then  the  door  snapped 
shut. 

At  six  o'clock  Sister  Sue  arrived.  Leaping  flames 
in  the  big  old  fireplace  of  the  living-room  gave  her  a 
welcome  no  less  cordial  than  the  one  Mrs.  Preston 
bestowed  upon  her.  And  the  biscuits  and  maple 
syrup  rounded  out  a  supper  that  made  Sister  Sue 
quite  forget  the  long,  cold  ride  up  from  Boston. 

Mrs.  Preston  asked  no  questions,  nor  did  she  even 
have  much  to  say  when,  after  supper,  Sister  Sue  com- 
menced —  a  little  diffidently : 

"You  see,  I  —  I've  changed  my  plans,  Mrs.  Pres- 
ton. I  —  I  am  going  to  live  with  May,  and  Gordon, 
whichever  one  needs  me  the  most  —  needs  me,  you 
know.  I  had  two  beautiful  letters  from  them  to-day." 


304  SISTER  SUE 

"Yes,  yes.  Well,  is  that  so?"  murmured  Mrs. 
Preston,  who  had  been  keeping  a  nervous  eye  on  the 
clock  for  ten  minutes  past.  "Well,  I'm  glad,  if  they 
wrote  ye  nice  letters,  I  'm  sure.  But  never  mind  that, 
now.  Ye  can  tell  me  all  about  it  to-morrow.  You  jes' 
go  inter  the  sittin'-room  an'  rest,  an'  —  My  land ! 
If  there  ain't  the  bell  this  minute.  Now,  who  do  you 
s'pose  that  can  be? "she  dissembled  as  she  hurried 
into  the  front  hall. 

In  the  living-room,  a  minute  later,  Sister  Sue  was 
greeting  Mr.  Donald  Kendall. 

"Why,  Mr.  Kendall!   You?"  she  cried. 

And  Mrs.  Preston,  catching  a  delighted  glimpse 
of  the  quick  color  that  flew  to  the  girl's  face,  took  her- 
self out  of  the  room  with  swift  steps  and  a  joyous 
chuckling  all  to  herself. 

"Yes.  I  came  on  for  a  couple  of  days'  stay,"  said 
the  man  as  the  door  closed  behind  Mrs.  Preston.  "I 
heard  this  afternoon  you  were  to  be  here  to-night,  so 
I  came  over.  You  don't  —  mind?  I  did  n't  bring  my 
violin  —  I  feared  you'd  be  too  tired  to  play." 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Sister  Sue.  And  be- 
cause it  seemed  as  if  he  must  hear  the  quick  beating 
of  her  heart,  and  read  aright  what  she  felt  was  a  tell- 
tale color  in  her  cheeks,  she  began  to  talk  very  fast  of 
what  he  had  been  doing. 

They  spoke  then  of  her  father.  And  Donald  Ken- 
dall said  a  few  low  words  of  sympathy,  of  his  un- 
derstanding of  what  all  those  years  had  meant  to 
her  and  to  her  father.  And,  as  he  talked,  it  seemed 
to  Sister  Sue  that  it  was  a  new  Donald  Kendall  — 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  305 

a  different  Donald  Kendall  —  there  before  her;  a 
Donald  Kendall  with  all  the  old  charm,  but  with  a 
softened,  chastened  something  about  him  that  dou- 
bled that  charm  and  quite  did  away  with  his  old 
imperious,  disagreeable  manner.  She  caught  herself 
wondering  if  it  were  the  Beth  who  sang  or  the  Helen 
who  painted  that  had  brought  about  this  wondrous 
change.  Then,  as  she  was  wondering,  she  suddenly 
became  aware  of  his  asking  her  a  question. 

"But  yourself.  You  have  told  me  nothing  of 
your  own  plans.  You  are — are  you  going  back  to 
Boston?" 

She  shook  her  head.  There  was  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, then  she  spoke. 

"No.  You  remember  —  perhaps  you  do  not  re- 
member —  but  I  —  I  told  you,  once,  that  sometime 
I  was  going  back  to  my  music,  if  I  could,  and  —  and 
study  for  the  concert  stage." 

"Yes,  I  remember."  He  had  turned  away  his  face, 
His  voice  sounded  a  little  harsh. 

"Well,  I  —  after  Father  went  and  I  was  alone  —  I 
thought  the  time  had  come,  and  —  I  decided  to  go. 
I  went  to  Boston.  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  play  to 
Signer  Bartoni." 

"Yes." 

"Then  something  —  never  mind  what  —  made  me 
change  my  mind,  and  —  I  came  home." 

He  turned  toward  her  quickly,  his  face  alight. 

"You  mean  —  that  you  have  given  up  all  idea  of 
going  on  with  your  music?"  he  demanded  eagerly. 

"Yes,  and— " 


306  SISTER  SUE 

"You  mean  that?  You  know  you  mean  it? "  he  cut 
in  eagerly. 

"Why,  yes.  Yes,  I  do,"  she  repeated,  her  startled 
eyes  questioning  him  a  little. 

"Thank  Heaven,  then!"  he  breathed  fervently. 
"That  frees  me.  I  can  ask  you  now  for  myself .  lean 
plead  with  you  to  come  with  me  — " 

But  she  stopped  him  with  her  hand  upraised.  She 
had  grown  very  white. 

"No,  no.  Please!  Don't  ask  me.  You  don't  under- 
stand. I  am  going  to  live  with  Gordon  and  May. 
That  is  why  I  came  back,  Mr.  Kendall.  They  need 
me  —  so  much." 

"They  need  you!  Well,  how  about  my  needing 
you?"  It  was  unmistakably  the  old  Donald  Kendall 
who  said  this.  The  imperious,  not-in-the-habit-of- 
being-denied  Donald  Kendall.  So  much  so  that  Sis- 
ter Sue,  even  perturbed  and  distressed  as  she  was, 
caught  herself  thinking  that,  after  all,  the  Beth  who 
sang  or  the  Helen  who  painted  had  not  made  so 
thorough  a  job  of  it. 

"Oh,  no!  No!  No!  I  could  n't  go  with  you!"  she 
cried  shudderingly. 

In  Sister  Sue's  distracted  vision  was  a  picture  of 
herself,  trailing  from  place  to  place,  playing  accom- 
paniments for  this  man,  who  would,  of  course  by 
that  time,  be  married  to  a  Beth  who  sang  or  a  Helen 
who  painted.  To  Sister  Sue  it  was  a  bitter,  cruel 
picture,  unendurable  even  to  think  of,  and  her  terror 
at  it  showed  unmistakably  in  her  face  and  voice  as 
she  repeated  quiveringly : 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  307 

"I  couldn't  go  with  you,  Mr.  Kendall.  Oh,  I 
could  n't." 

Before  the  abject  horror  in  her  face  the  man  fell 
back  dismayed.  His  own  face  grew  white. 

"But  if  I  could  make  you  see  what  it  means  to  me 
- 1  would  wait  —  I  'd  be  willing  to  wait  —  if  you 
thought  —  that  only  sometime  — "  His  voice  broke 
and  he  fell  silent. 

"But  —  but  it  couldn't  be  —  ever,"  she  faltered 
with  dry  lips.  "I  don't  seem  to  have  made  you 
understand.  I  have  given  up  my  music  —  as  a  pub- 
lic profession,  I  mean.  I  could  n't  play  for  you, 
and—" 

"Play  for  me ! "  He  had  been  walking  up  and  down 
the  room.  He  wheeled  now  and  faced  her  —  his 
face  a  blank  of  incomprehension.  Then  suddenly  his 
countenance  changed  as  with  a  flood  of  light.  "For 
Heaven's  sake,  girl!  What  do  you  think  I've  been 
asking  you  to  do?"  he  demanded. 

It  was  Sister  Sue's  turn  to  fall  back,  her  face  show- 
ing almost  consternation. 

"Why,  to  —  to  play  your  accompaniments  on 
your  concert  tours,  as  you  asked  me  to  before,"  she 
stammered.  "Was  n't  that  what  you  meant?" 

"Well,  no,  it  wasn't."  A  curious  mixture  of 
emotions  was  struggling  for  expression  on  the  man's 
face.  Relief,  doubt,  hope,  fear;  they  were  all  there. 
"I  was  trying  to  ask  you  to  be  —  my  wife." 

"Wife?  Why,  I  — I  thought  the  Beth  who  sang 
or  the  Helen  who  —  "  At  the  sudden  flame  of  a  joyous 
something  that  flashed  into  his  face  she  stopped  short 


308  SISTER  SUE 

and  turned  quite  away.    SEe  had  suddenly  realized 
what  her  words  must  have  implied. 

He  was  at  her  side  instantly.  "As  if  all  the  Beths 
or  Helens  that  ever  grew  could  be  compared  for  one 
minute  with  you  !  Why,  dear,  I  Ve  wanted  you  —  it 
seems  now  as  if  I  'd  wanted  you  always  —  not  to  play 
for  me,  though  you  will  play  for  me  sometimes,  I 
know,  but  to  be  with  me  always.  I  need  you,  I  — 

At  the  word  need  she  turned  —  at  the  same  time 
drawing  away  a  little. 

"No,  no.  Oh,  I  forgot.  How  could  I  have  for- 
gotten? I  am  going  to  May  and  Gordon.  They  need 
me.  That  is  why  I  came  back  —  to  — " 

But  he  would  n't  let  her  finish.  He  laughed,  he 
stormed,  he  pleaded.  He  was  masterful  and  beseech- 
ing by  turns.  He  told  her  of  the  long,  long  months 
when  he  had  kept  away  from  her  because  he  loved 
her  too  well  to  be  with  her  and  still  know  that  he 
could  not  have  her.  He  told  her  how  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  that  never,  never  would  he  stand  in  the  way 
of  her  accomplishing  her  dreamed-of  career  —  if  the 
chance  ever  came  to  her.  And  when  her  father  died 
and  the  chance  did  come,  he  told  her  he  thought  he 
was  then  going  to  be  brave  and  stay  away. 

"But  I  couldn't  stay  away,"  he  declared.  "I 
could  n't.  I  had  to  come.  I  was  in  torture.  All  day  I 
thought  of  you,  and  all  night  I  dreamed  of  you.  From 
away  out  West  I  turned  my  face  toward  the  east  - 
to  Vermont  where  you  were,  dear.  Right  and  left  I 
canceled  my  engagements.  I  had  to  know  whether  or 
not  you  were  going  to  take  up  your  music. 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  309 

"Then  to-day,  when  I  came,  I  found  you  —  gone. 
Little  girl,  if  you  could  have  seen  my  heart  at  that 
moment  —  the  blackness  of  despair.  I  knew  then 
how  much  I  had  hoped  from  my  journey." 

"But  you  must  have  found  right  away  that  I  was 
coming  —  to-night." 

"I  did.  And  right  away  I  was  in  the  Seventh 
Heaven  of  hope  again.  Surely,  darling,  after  all  that, 
you're  going  to  give  me  —  my  reward?" 

"But  —  what  can  I  do  about  Gordon  and  May?" 

He  drew  himself  up  into  stern  uncompromisingness. 

"Now,  look  here,  'Sister  Sue'  —  yes,  I  am  calling 
you  that  on  purpose;  it's  a  dear  name,  and  you'll  be 
'Sister  Sue'  to  all  of  us  as  long  as  you  live  —  you 
have  given  that  blessed  brother  and  sister  of  yours 
just  —  er  —  just  twenty-five  years  of  your  life. 
That 's  May's  age,  if  I  mistake  not.  And  that 's 
enough.  It  is  time  you  gave  more  thought  to  —  I  was 
going  to  say  to  —  yourself,  but  of  course  you  won't  do 
that  — Sister  Sues  never  think  of  themselves  —  so  I 
will  say  it  is  time  you  sacrificed  for  me  for  a  while. 
Let  me  have  what  /  want,  and  /  want  —  you" 

Sister  Sue's  eyes  were  luminous.  An  adorable  color 
stole  to  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  just  thai  wouldn't  be  any  sacrifice!  That 
is  —  I  mean  — "  she  began  to  correct  herself  hastily. 
But  it  was  too  late.  With  one  triumphant  sweep  he 
had  her  hi  his  arms. 

Later  —  some  time  later  —  when,  a  little  breath- 
lessly, she  was  smoothing  back  her  ruffled  hair  and 
rearranging  her  rumpled  collar,  she  said: 


310  SISTER  SUE 

"Of  course,  it  is  n't  as  if  —  as  if  Gordon  and  May 
would  n't  be  —  be  —  Well,  I  had  some  beautiful 
letters  from  them  just  to-day  about  their  wanting  me 
to  be  happy  —  in  my  own  way." 

Donald  Kendall  sniffed  his  disdain  with  the  supe- 
riority of  one  who  looked  down  from  the  height  of  a 
goal  attained. 

"Oh,  no  doubt.  I  understand  and  fully  appreciate 
the  kind  solicitude  of  Brother  Gordon  and  Sister 
May.  But  all  the  same,  whether  they  permit  or  not, 
I  want  them  and  you  to  understand  that,  from  now 
henceforth  and  forevermore,  you  are  going  to  be  my 
*  Sister  Sue."1  Then,  with  a  low,  tender  laugh,  he 
breathed:  "'Sister'  Sue  is  no  more,  but  now,"  as  he 
drew  her  into  his  arms,  "my  wife,  Sue." 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


A     000  127  125     3 


